The Other Champion
by Srikanth1808
Summary: COMPLETE - Part I of 'The Other Champion' series - Cassius Warrington of Slytherin has been chosen as the Hogwarts champion for the Triwizard Tournament - now what? Based on a Tumblr post by crazybutperfectlysane and aplatonicjacuzzi - please do read them first! Now being translated into Spanish by Nortia2!
1. Prologue

**The Other Champion**

 **Prologue**

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 **Disclaimer: Recognizable portions in this chapter have been taken from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, by J.K. Rowling. I neither own nor intend to make any profit from the use of Harry Potter and the associated characters of the series, in my story.**

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 _ **Location: The Great Hall, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry**_

 _ **Date: October the thirty-first, nineteen ninety-four**_

 _ **Time: Around eight twenty-three in the morning**_

 _The decorations in the Great Hall had changed this morning. As it was Halloween, a cloud of live bats was fluttering around the enchanted ceiling, while hundreds of carved pumpkins leered from every corner. Harry led the way over to Dean and Seamus, who were discussing those Hogwarts students of seventeen or over who might be entering._

' _There's a rumour going around that Warrington got up early and put his name in,' Dean told Harry. 'That big bloke from Slytherin who looks like a sloth.'_

 _Harry, who had played Quidditch against Warrington, shook his head in disgust._

' _We can't have a Slytherin champion!'_

' _And all the Hufflepuffs are talking about Diggory,' said Seamus contemptuously. 'But I wouldn't have thought he'd have wanted to risk his good looks.'_

…

* * *

 _ **Location: The Great Hall, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry**_

 _ **Date: October the thirty-first, nineteen ninety-four**_

 _ **Time: Around eight thirty in the evening**_

 _When Fleur Delacour too had vanished into the side chamber, silence fell again, but this time it was a silence so stiff with excitement you could almost taste it. The Hogwarts champion next …_

 _And the Goblet of Fire turned red once more; sparks showered out of it; the tongue of flame shot high into the air, and from its tip Dumbledore pulled the third piece of parchment._

* * *

'The Hogwarts champion,' he called, 'is Cassius Warrington!'

The cheers from the Slytherin table on the far side of the Hall were loud, but clearly not loud enough to mask the shocked and angry exclamations that erupted from the rest of the student body of Hogwarts. Fred and George, in particular, were quite selective in their words, so much so that it caused a few of the Beauxbatons' students – the ones who weren't crying over Fleur Delacour's selection at least – to look over in alarm.

'How on earth did Warrington get chosen?' asked Ron angrily, as they watched the Chaser of the Slytherin Quidditch team trundle up to Dumbledore, before turning right, walking along the staff table and disappearing into the chamber that now had the three Triwizard Champions.

'I dunno – look at Snape!'

Harry, Ron and Hermione looked at the Potions professor of Hogwarts, his sallow face framed between curtains of greasy, black hair. He was still applauding Warrington's selection along with the rest of his House, but the expression on his face was the same stoic, unmoving one that he usually sported – except when he was speaking to or about Harry.

'You'd think he'd be happy about it,' whispered Dean, who had heard Harry's hiss to Ron and Hermione about Snape. 'I mean, it is a Slytherin champion after all.'

'A Slytherin champion, urgh,' groaned Seamus. 'We're never going to hear the end of this from them – especially Malfoy.'

Every fourth-year Gryffindor in the vicinity – which included Lavender and Parvati (Neville was sitting a few places down with Ginny Weasley and Colin Creevey) – turned to look at the blonde Slytherin. Malfoy was on his feet, along with every other Slytherin, their loud cheers echoing across the Hall as three-quarters of the students sat, flabbergasted at the decision of the Goblet of Fire.

Or _was_ it every other Slytherin?

As the cheers died down, and the students returned to their seats, Harry spotted three others – two girls and a boy – seated next to Malfoy and his cronies, who had not risen along with their House-mates. They had been applauding, yes, but it looked as though they were doing so out of obligation, rather than jubilation. Even the smiles and grins they shared with Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson and the others – barely visible in the semi-dark state of the hall – seemed forced.

'Hermione, who –' began Harry, but he was cut off almost immediately by Dumbledore's voice.

'Very well,' he called out; Harry noticed the slightly displeased tone Dumbledore had adopted. 'We have our three champions. I am sure I can count upon all of you, including the remaining students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to give your champions every ounce of support you can muster. By cheering your champion on, you will contribute in a very real –'

But Dumbledore suddenly stopped speaking, and it was apparent to everybody what had distracted him.

The flames in the Goblet of Fire, which up till then had been merrily crackling away in the sparkling hue of bright blue after spitting out Warrington's name, had turned red again. Sparks were flying from it, and almost instantly, a long tongue of flame shot into the air, longer than ones that had espoused the names of the other champions.

And in that very instant, as the flames illuminated almost everyone in the Hall, Harry knew – just knew – that something was about to go terribly wrong. And he was definitely, whole-heartedly sure, that it would have something to do with him.

The parchment from the fourth flame floated down gently, as though it were a dandelion carried along by the wind. Dumbledore did not reach out to snatch the parchment from the air: he, along with every single person in the Hall – ghosts included – watched with bated breath as the small piece drifted downwards ever so slowly…

And then, after what seemed like an eternity for everyone watching, the parchment reached Dumbledore, landing lightly on his outstretched and upturned palm. And, seemingly an eternity later, Dumbledore turned the tiny piece over in his hand, tilting it at an angle so that he could read it in the light of the once-again blue flames of the Goblet.

No one, not even Professor McGonagall – who was, till date, the longest-serving colleague of Albus Dumbledore – could ever remember seeing the Headmaster of Hogwarts struck dumb. The silver-haired old wizard did not utter a single word as he stared at what was written on the parchment in his hand, and everyone in the Great Hall of Hogwarts stared at him.

And then, slowly, excruciatingly, Harry saw Dumbledore raise his head from his palm and look around the seated students in the Hall, as though searching for somebody.

A moment later, blue eyes behind half-moon spectacles met bright green eyes behind round-rimmed glasses.

Harry Potter did not need to hear Albus Dumbledore call out his name – the locking of their gazes had told him all he needed to know.

 _Bugger it all._

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 **Author's Note: I had read about this idea – of choosing a different champion other than Cedric for the Triwizard Tournament – somewhere on the web (I think it was a Tumblr post) a long time ago. And one of the comments (is that what they're called?) said 'Someone should write this into a fan-fiction!' And so I did. I think there are other stories on FF net with this as their topic – three of them, in fact – but none of them have been updated in a while. It did seem like an open idea to me, so I hope to do justice to it. I just want to thank that Tumblr user for coming up with this amazing idea.**


	2. Musings in the Chamber

**The Other Champion**

 **Chapter 1: Musings in the Chamber**

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 **Author's Note: I've decided to do a dual POV story here – some time with Cassius and some with Harry. The latter is easy to write – everyone knows that; the former, however, will be a challenge. It's something I'm willing to take up though – Merlin knows that Tumblr post has been crying out for a really good story. I hope to do justice to his character – capturing the Tournament from a Slytherin's eyes – and a champion no less – has rarely been explored before.**

 **On that note, I present to you the very first chapter of "The Other Champion"! Please do read and review!**

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 **Disclaimer: Recognizable portions in this chapter have been taken from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, by J.K. Rowling. I neither own nor intend to make any profit from the use of Harry Potter and the associated characters of the series, in my story.**

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 _ **Previously on "The Other Champion"…**_

 _No one, not even Professor McGonagall – who was, till date, the longest-serving colleague of Albus Dumbledore – could ever remember seeing the Headmaster of Hogwarts struck dumb. The silver-haired old wizard did not utter a single word as he stared at what was written on the parchment in his hand, and everyone in the Great Hall of Hogwarts stared at him._

 _And then, slowly, excruciatingly, Harry saw Dumbledore raise his head from his palm and look around the seated students in the Hall, as though searching for somebody._

 _A moment later, blue eyes behind half-moon spectacles met bright green eyes behind round-rimmed glasses._

 _Harry Potter did not need to hear Albus Dumbledore call out his name – the locking of their gazes had told him all he needed to know._

 _Bugger it all._

* * *

The chamber off the side of the Great Hall was significantly smaller than the cavernous Hall from which he had just arrived. Paintings of witches and wizards lined the walls of the room – the eyes of their occupants followed his progress across the room to where he took his place with the other champions, near the handsome roaring fire. One of the occupants, a wizened witch with a pale pointed face, was looking at him with some interest.

He chanced a glance at the others – they looked quite impressive, their figures silhouetted against the red flames. Viktor Krum was leaning against the mantelpiece, his ever-present scowl upon his brooding face. ' _He looks really grumpy,_ ' someone had said at the Quidditch World Cup; apparently, they were quite right. He had assumed that the scowl was because of the constant media attention, but it seemed as though it was a permanent feature of Krum's visage.

Fleur Delacour, on the other hand, could not have been more different to Krum. Where he was hunched and brooding, she stood tall with pride, confidence, and an easy smile on her face. Friendly and welcoming were some of the words he would use to describe her – not something that would apply to Krum. Of course, her impressive beauty was another plus point; though, he suspected that it was not something in which she applied too much effort – it seemed natural.

All of a sudden, the door to the chamber opened once more. He turned from his position to face the entrance – presumably the organizers were going to tell them more about the Tournament, or they wanted to call them back out into the Hall.

But Cassius Warrington did not expect to see Harry Potter walk into the room, looking completely lost, as though he wasn't sure if he had to be there or not.

 _What on earth?_

He did not know much about Potter – he had only played against him once, in the Quidditch Final last year – except for what Draco Malfoy espoused, preached, and occasionally whined about in the confines of the Slytherin Common Room. Malfoy had never painted Potter in a good light – then again, there were no positive words exchanged about Gryffindors amongst the members of his House, but Potter's treatment was especially brutal. Every speech or complaint of Draco was always a grouch against the favouritism that Dumbledore and the other teachers – save Snape – showed Potter, or how baggy and old his Muggle clothes were, or how Potter always used to get out of trouble every single year. By the end of it, it was indoctrinated into every Slytherin student, young or old, that you could not like Potter. You had to hate him, or you were betraying the noble values of Salazar Slytherin.

 _What a load of tosh._

Privately, Cassius had never bought into any of the rubbish that Draco had said. Granted, the blonde had the benefit – some would call it a disadvantage and a shame – of sharing classes with Potter and his gang of friends, but it was only two subjects, with a grand total of four classes a week. And they were in different houses, which made some of Draco's tales seem very tall and outlandish indeed. Cassius supposed Draco was doing it merely because Potter had refused his hand of friendship when they had first come to Hogwarts – that story, recounted to him by Theodore Nott, had been re-told so many times it was hard to remember what the original version actually was. It didn't help that Draco was a bully either – something Cassius had seen when on visits with his parents to Malfoy Manor. Malfoy Senior had drilled it into his son that they were the best, and anyone who didn't see that was worth nothing more than dragon dung. Draco had taken his father's words to heart, and was making sure that everyone knew that.

The boy was a waste of talent – if he even had some in the first place – but his father's name still carried a good deal of weight; whatever was salvaged post the fall of the Dark Lord all those years ago was enough to keep him in the good graces of those important people in the Ministry. Going against Draco would mean going against Malfoy – and despite all his faults, Senior knew which buttons to push to send you running for the hills, or crawling back for forgiveness.

 _A true Slytherin indeed._

Cassius was, to an extent, lucky that he was still on good terms with Draco Malfoy. He had not done anything – yet – to anger the young heir to the Malfoy line – something which his father was extremely proud of – nor had he divulged any information to Draco that could destroy every relationship and connection he had built in Slytherin House.

Slytherins did keep their secrets after all. Especially if it was about –

No, he would not think about that. Not right now.

Cassius looked at Potter again, halfway across the threshold to the room. Behind Potter, he could hear an angry buzzing noise, as though a colony of bees had been unleashed upon the Hall. It was a moment later, just as the door closed, that he realized the sound had been the students – angry whispers, irritated calls, and even one or two shouts of 'He's a cheat!'.

It was to be expected, of course; Slytherin House was the least popular House in the school, so it was natural that the rest of the school would turn on him. He had known this would happen if he were to be chosen, ever since he had submitted his name for the Tournament. 'We can't have a Slytherin champion!' had been the words he had heard earlier that day, while overhearing people discussing the entrants.

For a moment, he smirked to himself – they had a Slytherin champion now. What were they going to do? Demand a re-entry? Bar him from participating? Both options were impossible – his father had said that the Goblet would only light up at the commencement of the next Tournament; and barring him from participating in the Tournament would mean a loss of his magic – a binding magical contract, his father had said. If you're in it, you have to go the distance. No backing out, no turning around.

He was used to the jeers and boos, though. It was his sixth year in Hogwarts – six years of experiencing the same venomous stares from most of the school; of being subject to the same verbal abuse of being 'Death Eater spawn'; of not being treated equally and fairly by all the teachers…being a Slytherin for six years made you immune to these things.

This situation was nothing different. So he had been chosen ahead of other candidates – who, according to others, would have been more deserving of the title of 'Hogwarts Champion' than he was; so he would have to represent the school in performing three dangerous tasks; so no one, barring the Slytherins and a handful of his friends from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, would support him.

 _Not different at all._

And then, just before the door shut behind Potter, he heard the last call of a student from the Hall: 'He's not even seventeen yet!'

 _Wait, what?_

 _I am seventeen_ , thought Cassius. He had not been thrown out by the Age Line drawn by the Headmaster when he had submitted his name – he had had a good laugh over the fate suffered by Fawcett, Summers, and those blood-traitor Weasley twins – and his name had been called out by Dumbledore from that slip of parchment. So why were they saying that he wasn't seventeen yet?

And just as the wizened witch in the portrait – who had been looking at him earlier – flitted over to the neighbouring one and began whispering in hushed tones to the occupant of that frame, a wizard with a walrus moustache, Cassius' eyes fell on Potter's young, confused face, the firelight eerily reflected off his bright green eyes.

 _Merlin's beard…_

The door opened once more; Cassius looked up to see Ludo Bagman scurry into the room. His round, boyish face shone in the firelight, and he was grinning from ear to ear. He muttered something as he grabbed Potter's arm and led him forward to stand in front of the three of them – Cassius, Fleur and Krum.

'Gentlemen…lady,' began Bagman, with a polite bow in Fleur's direction, 'may I introduce – incredible though it may seem – the fourth Triwizard Champion?'

 _You have got to be joking!_

Cassius stared at Potter, bewildered at the incredible announcement by Bagman. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Krum push himself off from the mantelpiece and straighten up, his scowl deepening even more as he frowned. Fleur, on the other hand, threw back her sheet of silvery blonde hair with an almost superior air. She was matching Bagman's grin to the last tooth.

'Oh, vairy funny joke, Meester Bagman!'

'Joke?' repeated Bagman, still smiling. 'No, no, not at all! Harry's name just came out of the Goblet of Fire!'

 _That's impossible!_

Cassius frowned at Bagman – his ever-present smile gave the impression that the three of them were being subject to one of the biggest pranks of the year. And if it was the case, Potter was playing his part only too well – the role of a confused, unwilling participant in the Tournament, only to turn around at the end of it all and yell, 'Ha, got you!'

But this was too serious a subject for a prank – even by Slytherin standards. And Bagman, for all his faults and shortcomings as a Department Head in the Ministry, was no Slytherin. Potter, maybe, giving his penchant for sneaking around and worming his way out of trouble, but not Bagman. And certainly not Mr Bartemius Crouch – the man was a stickler for the rules, despite his less-than-savvy reputation and tarnished past.

But how on earth could Potter's name have come out of the Goblet of Fire? Almost immediately, two different possibilities occurred to him – somehow he had managed to cross the Age Line, or he had asked an older student to drop his name in the Goblet for him. Workable scenarios, yes, but given that it was _Potter_ …

A Slytherin would have considered these options, if they had been looking to enter. They would have examined every possible solution – even the more questionable ones – in order to get to their target, with the least possible damage to themselves. Subtlety and cunning were dominant traits of members of Slytherin House – it was something they grew up with at home, and at Hogwarts. They would never run out with spells flying everywhere, not when there was an opportunity to sneak around and attack from an advantageous position.

Potter, though, was not a Slytherin. He had the subtlety of a troll, and Cassius had yet to see evidence of any of Potter's cunningness in anything that he did. Worming his way out of punishments was another thing – there was always the scenario that the punishments were unjust and undeserved in the first place. But to use a situation to his advantage, to fight and compete on an unequal footing…that was something Potter was doubtful of managing.

So how on earth did he get his name in?

'But evidently zair 'as been a meestake, Meester Bagman,' said Fleur contemptuously; her hand waved in Potter's direction in an almost dismissive manner. ''E cannot compete, 'e is too young!'

 _That's your problem?_

Being a member of the Slytherin House meant that you were bound to get more contempt and judgements passed on every little decision you made, or statement you said. It was part of the natural order – as normal as breathing in air to stay alive, or as the sun setting in the west. But what the other Houses always failed to appreciate was the cognitive abilities that Slytherins had in terms of problem solving and solution-seeking. There were exceptions, of course – Vincent and Gregory were classic examples – but barring those two, most of them were second only to Ravenclaws. The only difference was that Slytherins never showed it off, instead using their knowledge to play to their advantage.

Which was why Fleur's almost casual dismissal of Potter not competing because he was too young made Cassius almost groan with despair. Granted, the Beauxbatons Champion did not know about Potter as much as Cassius did – which was not a lot in the first place – but it was common knowledge that Potter was never too young for anything. Youngest Seeker on the Gryffindor Quidditch team in a century; coming face to face with a Basilisk – if rumours were to be believed – when only twelve years old; fighting off a hundred Dementors at once, apparently with a full corporeal Patronus – clearly his age was not a problem.

No, the problem was how did an exceptionally powerful magical object, like the Goblet of Fire, get bewitched into spitting out the names of two Hogwarts Champions?

'Well…it is amazing,' said Bagman, rubbing his smooth chin and smiling down at Potter, who returned a completely blank look. 'But, as you know, the age restriction was only imposed this year as an extra safety measure. And as his name's come out of the goblet…I mean, I don't think there can be any ducking out at this stage…It's down in the rules, you're obliged…Harry will just have to do the best he –'

And for the third time that evening, the door to the room opened again, and a large group of people entered: Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape, Mr Crouch, Madame Maxime, and Karkaroff. Over the heads of the group, Cassius saw the looks exchanged by the students in the Hall, accompanied by the still-present angry buzzing, before McGonagall closed the door.

Snape had moved over to stand next to Cassius, with McGonagall doing the same with Potter. Dumbledore, Madame Maxime and Karkaroff had stopped in the middle of the chamber, the candle-filled chandelier dangling just above them. Crouch stepped over to join Bagman behind the Champions, near the still roaring fire.

'Madame Maxime!' cried Fleur at once; she strode over to her headmistress as she spoke. 'Zey are saying zat zis leetle boy is to compete also!'

Once again, Cassius barely restrained himself from shaking his head in disappointment. He chanced a glance at Potter, and was slightly surprised to see him look a bit – angry. He smirked inwardly – it seemed as though Potter didn't take kindly to people calling him 'little'.

'What is ze meaning of this, Dumbly-dorr?' purred Madame Maxime, but it was with an ominous air to it. Her handsome head was brushing the tip of the chandelier, and her great black-satin covered chest was swelling in outrage.

'I'd like to know that myself, Dumbledore,' said Karkaroff, a steely smile adorning his face as he glared at the Headmaster of Hogwarts with cold indignation. ' _Two_ Hogwarts champions? I don't remember anyone telling me the host school is allowed two champions – or have I not read the rules carefully enough?' He gave a short, harsh laugh.

 _Finally_ , _someone who's thinking straight and logical for once._

' _C'est impossible_ ,' said Madame Maxime. ''Ogwarts cannot 'ave two champions, it is most unjust.'

 _That it is_ , thought Cassius, momentarily distracted by the sight of the many opals decorating her huge hand that rested on Fleur's shoulder. His mother had similar fine jewels at home, just like –

 _No!_

It took him a good deal of effort to pull his mind away from those thoughts, and back to the situation in the chamber.

'…your Age Line would keep out younger contestants, Dumbledore,' Karkaroff was saying, his blue eyes becoming icier by the minute. 'Otherwise, we would, of course, have brought along a wider selection of candidates from our own schools.'

Cassius expected Dumbledore to retort immediately – he had, of course, seen the Age Line work to perfection in throwing out almost legal students; surely the Age Line was not to be faulted.

So it was with a fair amount of surprise that he next heard the smooth, oily voice of his Head of House, Professor Snape.

'It's no one's fault but Potter's, Karkaroff,' said Snape softly. 'Don't go blaming Dumbledore for Potter's determination to break rules. He has been crossing lines ever since he arrived here –'

'Thank you, Severus,' said Dumbledore firmly, and Snape went quiet at once.

 _Wow._

Cassius had heard of the supposed hatred that Snape harboured towards Potter – apparently, it had stemmed from Snape's loathing of Potter's father when they had both been in school. Of course, the knowledge of Snape's feelings had been gleaned from reading between the lines of Draco's gleeful re-telling of the incidents in Potions classes. Having never experienced it himself, Cassius had passed it off as something a bit unusual, but not entirely worrisome. Certainly the Weasley twins had received an equal amount of injustice and hatred in Snape's hands.

How very wrong he had been.

This was loathing taken to a whole new standard. In his six years at Hogwarts, Cassius had never seen Snape humiliate another student to this level in public – especially considering who the 'public' comprised of: Ministry officials, heads of two foreign schools, and their star students. With his words, Snape had, surely, provided these guests with a portrait of Potter – and it was not a masterpiece of his outstanding characteristics and qualities.

Dumbledore was now looking at Potter, an inscrutable expression on his wizened, old face. Potter stared right back.

'Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Harry?' he asked, and despite the oddness and the seriousness of the situation, Cassius couldn't help but admire the calm tone adopted by his Headmaster. Despite what his parents had told him, and what most Slytherins said, Dumbledore was indeed a great wizard.

'No,' said Potter. From behind him, Cassius heard Snape make a soft noise of impatient disbelief.

 _Oh, give it a rest!_

'Did you ask an older student to put it into the Goblet of Fire for you?' continued Dumbledore, ignoring Snape.

'No,' replied Potter vehemently. Cassius was more than a little shocked at the change in his demeanour – from a lost and confused state, Potter was now glaring up at Dumbledore, clearly wondering why on earth he was being asked these questions by the Headmaster himself. It was common knowledge that Potter was one of Dumbledore's favourites – he supposed Potter felt a little let-down at the apparent doubt that Dumbledore had.

'Ah, but of course 'e is lying!' cried Madame Maxime.

'He could not have crossed the Age Line,' said McGonagall sharply, her hand resting on Potter's shoulder. 'I am sure we are all agreed on that –'

'Dumbly-dorr must 'ave made a mistake wiz ze line,' said Madame Maxime, shrugging.

'It is possible, of course,' said Dumbledore politely, but Cassius could detect the undercurrent of defiance and ire in the response. The meaning was quite clear – _how on earth could you even consider questioning me?_

'Dumbledore, you know perfectly well you did not make a mistake!' said Professor McGonagall angrily. 'Really, what nonsense! Harry could not have crossed the line himself, and as Professor Dumbledore believes that he did not persuade an older student to do it for him, I'm sure that should be good enough for everybody else!' She shot a very angry look at Snape, who was still standing behind him.

Cassius noticed Harry's shoulders sagging with relief, almost imperceptibly, at McGonagall's words. So Dumbledore believed him. That, apparently, meant it was true: Potter did not enter the Triwizard Tournament out of his own free will.

But was it? Did he, Cassius, believe Potter? The testimony of a fourteen-year-old boy, scrutinised by a Headmaster who, despite his greatness and fame, had vested interests in the said boy? The word of Potter, who, according to most Slytherins, was a lying, attention-seeking cheat who would do anything for a bit of fame and recognition. A sycophant who was not satisfied with his claim to fame by defeating one of the most feared Dark wizards in history, when he was just an infant.

Cassius was not cut from the same cloth as Draco, Pansy, Vincent, Gregory and the rest of Draco's sympathisers. Yes, his father had been a Death Eater; yes, his parents had tried to teach him the ways of being a pure-blood in a society infested with half-bloods and…Muggle-borns; yes, Slytherin House expected him to uphold the values and esteem of pure-bloods in the wizarding world…

Cassius had believed it at first. He had acceded to the theories taught to him by his parents – for they were parents, they could do no wrong in his eyes. He had agreed to the fact that he was superior because of his pure-blood status – and that the others were unworthy of their place in the magical world.

When he had started Hogwarts, and had been sorted into Slytherin, his parents had been so proud; his father had written a letter on his second day at school, wherein he had expressed his pride at having Cassius for a son, and that he expected him to uphold the honour of the Warringtons and make a name for himself in Slytherin House, and in the wizarding world. Cassius had been over the moon upon reading the letter – making his parents proud had been one of his foremost goals while growing up.

But then, as he moved up the years in Hogwarts, he saw things; met people; spoke to others. And slowly, these experiences chipped away at his beliefs, until one fine day when he woke up and realized with a huge jolt, that nothing of what he had learnt, was true.

How did being a pure-blood wizard or witch make you superior to supposedly 'lesser beings'? He was a pure-blood, and yet he was never one of the top students in his class. Alicia Spinnet was at the top, and she was a half-blood. Next was Sarah Fawcett, a Muggle-born. In fact, not one of the top five were pure-bloods.

The Dark Lord had advocated the superiority of pure-bloods over the others, but if this was the case, there was no way that was true.

Magic-grabbers – yes, that was what some of the more indoctrinated members of Slytherin had called the Muggle-borns. But how was one supposed to grab magic? Presumably, it had something to do with how certain contracts could cause you to lose your magic – the one right now with the Goblet of Fire being a prime example – but there was no evidence of that magic being transferred to someone else.

Cassius was many things – some people said he looked like a sloth, with a large figure, hunched over and extremely slow (something which he vehemently disagreed with) – but he was definitely not stupid. Academically, he was off the pace, but his intuition and quiet thirst for knowledge beyond the books for his schooling was matched by only a few. Only that Granger girl – and a few others from her year – surpassed him in this respect.

He had researched, thoroughly, on this aspect of magic-grabbing, which led him to the vast topic of 'pureblood mania' and the debates that raged on that issue within the wizarding world, even to this day. When the truth hit him, it hit hard, but it was necessary. And Cassius was grateful for it.

For from that day on, he had become a changed man. Outwardly, of course, he had to show off his pure-blood status to the rest of the school, lest his House-mates find out about it. Slytherins were, if anything, quite cruel and brutal to those they considered as betrayers, but their retribution would be subtle, painful, and long-lasting. Cassius had seen it before, and had no desire to ever be subject to that.

Inwardly, however, he would cringe when his fellows insulted half-bloods and Muggle-borns with foul names. He would go out of his way to help those unfortunate Muggle-borns who had been sorted into Slytherin, only because of their dominant traits of cunningness and ambition; make sure that he had friends in other Houses, so that he was never painted in a bad light. Oh, he was a Slytherin through and through – he always looked out for himself, before anyone else – but injustice and incorrect beliefs were somethings he could not – did not – stand for.

Especially not after –

 _It had to go back to that, didn't it? Stop it, NOW!_

'Mr. Crouch…Mr. Bagman,' said Karkaroff, bringing Cassius back to the present; he noted its unctuous tone – just like what his father used while seeking a favour from Ministry officials, 'you are our – er – objective judges. Surely you will agree that this is most irregular?'

Bagman wiped his round, boyish face with his handkerchief and looked at Mr Crouch, who was standing outside the circle of the firelight, his face half hidden in shadow. He looked slightly eerie, the half-darkness making him look much older, giving him an almost skull-like appearance. When he spoke, however, it was in his usual curt voice.

'We must follow the rules, and the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the Tournament.'

'Well, Barty knows the rule book back to front,' said Bagman, beaming and turning back to Karkaroff and Madame Maxime, as though the matter was now closed.

'I insist upon resubmitting the names of the rest of my students,' said Karkaroff. He had dropped his unctuous tone and his smile now. His face wore a very ugly look indeed. 'You will set up the Goblet of Fire once more, and we will continue adding names until each school has two champions. It's only fair, Dumbledore.'

 _Is he daft? How on earth did he become a Headmaster?_

'But Karkaroff, it doesn't work like that,' said Bagman. 'The Goblet of Fire's just gone out — it won't reignite until the start of the next tournament –'

'– in which Durmstrang will most certainly not be competing!' exploded Karkaroff. 'After all our meetings and negotiations and compromises, I little expected something of this nature to occur! I have half a mind to leave now!'

 _Clunk. Clunk. Clunk._

'Empty threat, Karkaroff,' growled a voice from near the door. 'You can't leave your champion now. He's got to compete. They've all got to compete. Binding magical contract, like Dumbledore said. Convenient, eh?'

It was Mad-Eye Moody. He looked strangely impressive as he limped across the room, his right foot thudding on the floor with the loud clunk. The firelight illuminated his scarred face in a heroic manner, as though he had just returned from a long, draw-out battle.

Cassius had never encountered Moody before his arrival as the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor this year: the only things he knew about him were from the stories he had heard his father swap with some of his friends during parties at home, or from reading up old articles in the Daily Prophet, or from overhearing conversations in the Slytherin common room – the last one had become particularly prominent post Moody's appointment. Most of Slytherins, apparently, had had their families touched by him, either in a good way, or a bad way – depending on how you looked at it.

Moody was eccentric, of that there was no doubt in Cassius' mind. A jinx-happy, ex-Auror of the Ministry, Moody had been released due to his paranoia towards possibly everything that moved; but it was at a great cost. The Auror Office at the Ministry had never had a more brilliant employee – indeed, Moody had been, at his prime, one of the best Ministry employees ever. But a combination of too many battles, a great host of scars and souvenirs from those duels, and his old age contributed significantly to his decline. Paranoia accelerated his eccentricity – it was rumoured that he even scanned birthday gifts that were personally delivered to him by the giver, for fear that it could be a trap. His habit of eating and drinking items that had been prepared by him only was well known.

But something about this Moody seemed…off, for lack of a better word, to Cassius. Granted, he had never met the man before, but there was just something in his overall demeanour and behaviour that put Cassius on alert. What that 'something' was, he didn't know. But it was unnerving, at the very least.

'Convenient?' hissed Karkaroff. 'I'm afraid I don't understand you, Moody.'

Cassius had of course heard of the history between Moody and Karkaroff – the former had been responsible for the latter's capture right after the Dark Lord had vanished thirteen years ago. Moody had reportedly been enraged at the Wizengamot's decision to strike a deal with Igor Karkaroff – his release in exchange for valuable information concerning the Dark Lord's followers. Cassius' father only said that he was extremely relieved Karkaroff had not sold him out.

The animosity between the two was evident for all to see. Karkaroff, of course, tried to sound disdainful in his statements, as though Moody was not worth his time, but his clenched fists gave him away.

 _Subtle, really subtle._

'Don't you?' said Moody quietly. 'It's very simple, Karkaroff. Someone put Potter's name in that goblet knowing he'd have to compete if it came out.'

 _And that's supposed to be convenient – how?_

'Evidently, someone 'oo wished to give 'Ogwarts two bites at ze apple!' said Madame Maxime, indignation bristling across her olive complexion.

'I quite agree, Madame Maxime,' said Karkaroff, bowing to her. 'I shall be lodging complaints with the Ministry of Magic and the International Confederation of Wizards –'

Cassius almost laughed out loud at the sheer ridiculousness of that statement. The Ministry? They wouldn't give the complaint the time of the day; plus, the person in charge of responding to the complaint was right here in this room, and Mr Crouch had unequivocally declared Potter's mandatory participation in the Tournament. As for the ICW…well, with Dumbledore as the Supreme Mugwump, what chance did Karkaroff have over there?

'If anyone's got reason to complain, it's Potter,' growled Moody, 'but…funny thing…I don't hear him saying a word…'

 _He's got a point._ Potter had been unusually silent throughout the entire exchange – barring his response to Dumbledore's questions. Why wasn't he complaining about the injustice of it all? Surely he wanted out as much as the others – Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, and, judging by Fleur's enraged reaction, her too.

'Why should 'e complain?' she burst out, stamping her foot. ''E 'as ze chance to compete, 'asn't 'e? We 'ave all been 'oping to be chosen for weeks and weeks! Ze honor for our schools! A thousand Galleons in prize money — zis is a chance many would die for!'

'Maybe someone's hoping Potter is going to die for it,' said Moody, with the merest trace of a growl.

Cassius' eyes snapped over to stare at Moody, as a tense silence settled over the group following that dramatic statement. Someone hoping that Potter would die for it? He thought that seemed a little too far-fetched, even by Moody's standards.

Apparently, however, Bagman did not, for he bounced nervously up and down on his feet and said, 'Moody, old man … what a thing to say!'

But why, though, thought Cassius, tuning the conversation out as he continued to eye Moody from his vantage point near the fire. Why would anyone want Potter to die for it? Anyone who had been following Potter's exploits in school would have known that he had an uncanny knack of escaping from dangerous situations – not wholly unscathed, but definitely alive and kicking. And those were not situations that could be re-created or imagined in a classroom – who on earth would even think about bringing a Basilisk to class and asking their students the best way to fight it?

No, Potter was no slouch when it came to life-threatening scenarios: he had proved that since he was only a year old. Whoever had entered Potter into the Tournament – for Cassius now believed Potter that he hadn't entered it of his own free will – had made a mistake: Potter was less likely to die in the supposedly dangerous tasks he was to partake in, than a knife being run through him from behind. If they had wanted to see Potter die during the Tournament, it wouldn't happen.

But as he dismissed this possibility, Cassius' mind began going into overdrive: how about after the Tournament? It would be the perfect disguise, the perfect trap to capture an unsuspecting Potter right from under the nose of Dumbledore. Let him finish the Tournament without any untoward incidents, lull him into a false sense of security, and then strike. The most opportune moment would be right at that time, when everyone was celebrating the end of it all. A very Slytherin thing to do…

Then again, Moody was known for understanding how his opponents thought; it was not uncommon for him to say such things, given his knowledge and experience. And yet, Cassius felt as though it had been said with a little too much foreknowledge…

'Alastor!'

Dumbledore's warning voice echoed around the chamber, snapping Cassius back to the conversation he'd missed. He wondered who had been speaking before Dumbledore had interrupted, but that was solved when he caught sight of Moody's slightly chastised expression. Alastor Moody it is, then.

'How this situation arose, we do not know,' said Dumbledore, speaking to everyone gathered in the room, and even now, after all that had been said, he exuded a sense of peace and calm. 'It seems to me, however, that we have no choice but to accept it. Both Cassius and Harry have been chosen to compete in the Tournament. This, therefore, they will do…'

'Ah, but Dumbly-dorr –'

'My dear Madame Maxime, if you have an alternative, I would be delighted to hear it.'

Cassius had not felt such an urge to cheer and whoop this badly since he had been twelve, and Slytherin had won the House Cup for the sixth year in a row. Madame Maxime, naturally, had no response to that.

'Well, shall we crack on then?' said Bagman, breaking the tension that threatened to envelop them once more – Karkaroff and Moody were glaring daggers at each other. Bagman rubbed his hands eagerly and smiled around the room. 'Got to give our champions their instructions, haven't we? Barty, want to do the honours?'

Mr Crouch seemed to come out of a deep reverie – as though Bagman's voice had woken him up from a nice quiet nap.

'Yes,' he said, 'instructions. Yes…the first task…'

He moved forward from the half-darkness into the firelight; Cassius' first thought was that he looked very sickly. Not at all like the Crouch he had seen at the Quidditch World Cup last summer – that thin, papery look about his wrinkled skin had certainly not been there. His eyes rested upon dark shadows, giving him a rather haunted, yet weary look.

'The first task is designed to test your daring,' he began, 'so we are not going to be telling you what it is. Courage in the face of the unknown is an important quality in a wizard…very important…'

Was he trying to hint at something? Crouch had never been this…philosophical, for lack of a better word. Cassius didn't muse on it for much longer, however; Crouch was still speaking.

'The first task will take place on November the twenty-fourth, in front of the other students and the panel of judges.

'The champions are not permitted to ask for or accept help of any kind from their teachers to complete the tasks in the tournament. The champions will face the first challenge armed only with their wands. They will receive information about the second task when the first is over. Owing to the demanding and time-consuming nature of the tournament, the champions are exempted from end-of-year tests.'

 _Oh, that's a relief._

'I think that's all, is it, Albus?'

'I think so,' said Dumbledore, a mildly concerned expression on his visage as he looked at Crouch. 'Are you sure you wouldn't like to stay at Hogwarts tonight, Barty?'

'No, Dumbledore, I must get back to the Ministry,' said Crouch. 'It is a very busy, very difficult time at the moment…I've left young Weatherby in charge…Very enthusiastic…a little overenthusiastic, if truth be told…'

 _Weatherby? Which self-respecting parent would name their child 'Weatherby'?_

'You'll come and have a drink before you go, at least?' said Dumbledore.

'Come on, Barty, I'm staying!' said Bagman brightly. 'It's all happening at Hogwarts now, you know, much more exciting here than at the office!'

'I think not, Ludo,' said Crouch with a touch of his old impatience.

 _Ah, there he is. Maybe I was imagining things._

'Professor Karkaroff – Madame Maxime – a nightcap?' said Dumbledore.

But Madame Maxime had already put her arm around Fleur's shoulders and was leading her swiftly out of the room. Cassius caught a few words of their rapid-fire French – his father had insisted on lessons when he was a child – as they went off into the Great Hall: 'unfair', 'advantage', 'complaint' jumped out from their back-and-forth volley. He smirked to himself – for all their threats and insinuations of lodging complaints with authorities, they would ultimately have to grit their teeth and bear it.

Karkaroff beckoned to Krum, and they, too, exited, though in silence.

'Harry, Cassius, I suggest you go up to bed,' said Dumbledore, smiling at both of them. 'I am sure Gryffindor and Slytherin are waiting to celebrate with you, and it would be a shame to deprive them of this excellent excuse to make a great deal of mess and noise.'

It was odd, how friendly and cordial Dumbledore was being about the whole 'Slytherin champion' issue. Surely he must have heard the calls and jeers from the other Houses; surely he saw him, Cassius, as an equal threat to Potter alongside whoever had entered him into the Tournament.

Then again, being the Supreme Mugwump of the ICW and the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot meant you had to exercise diplomacy and caution in situations far graver than this. School rivalries counted for nothing when set against international issues.

Cassius had expected Potter to acknowledge Dumbledore and leave without a backward glance, so he was taken aback when Potter glanced at him. He met the boy's gaze, gave a short nod, and after a swift glance at Snape and Dumbledore, he followed Potter out into the Great Hall.

The Hall was deserted now; the candles had burned low, giving the jagged smile of the pumpkins an eerie, flickering quality.

Potter did not say a word as they cross the threshold to the Entrance Hall. They were to split up here – Cassius down to the dungeons, and Potter to the seventh floor in Gryffindor tower.

Potter stopped abruptly in the middle of the Entrance Hall; his back was turned to Cassius, so he couldn't make out what the Gryffindor was contemplating. He turned around, seemingly about to say something to Cassius, but he stopped short, as though he didn't know what to say, or how to say whatever it is he wanted to say.

A few moments later, Potter shook his head and turned to head up the marble staircase.

And at that instant, just like he had done three years ago, Cassius decided to be the better man.

'I believe you,' he said quietly, but in the silence that permeated across the Entrance Hall, he may as well have shouted it out.

Potter stopped in his tracks, right foot raised and ready to climb the staircase. Slowly, he turned around to face the Slytherin; in the dim light of the almost-extinguished candles floating about the Entrance Hall, Cassius could see the look of absolute disbelief on his face.

'What?' said Potter, in a strangled sort of voice.

'I believe you, Potter,' repeated Cassius. 'I believe that you didn't put your name in the Goblet of Fire, nor did you ask an older student to do it for you.'

Potter looked shell-shocked, as though he had never, in his wildest dreams, expected this to happen. A Slytherin professing his support and belief for a Gryffindor? The poster boy of Gryffindor, that too – Harry Potter!

Of course, it worked both ways – Cassius had never expected he would be chosen by the Goblet of Fire, let alone have a civil conversation with Harry Potter, the unexpected fourth champion in the Triwizard Tournament.

Was it even a conversation though? Potter still hadn't said a word since Cassius had reiterated his belief in him.

'C'mon, Potter, I haven't got all night,' said Cassius, a bit impatiently, but not unkindly.

Potter seemed to snap out of it; he jerked his head as though trying to shake something off, and stared back at Cassius. Only this time, it was a look of intrigue, curiosity, and…suspicion.

'You're lying, aren't you?' said Potter, but there was no malice in his voice. It was a simple question, and, now Cassius thought about it, natural from him, given the circumstances and the history. The Slytherin-Gryffindor rivalry had existed forever, ever since Salazar Slytherin had left the school in a huff, and the mistrust between the members of the two House ran deep. Rarely was there a public display of co-operation between the two Houses – any attempt to do so was met with scathing looks, and the perpetrators were effectively ostracized by their House-mates.

Given that it was Potter himself – the bane of every Slytherin since he'd joined Hogwarts, at least according to Draco – it was completely natural.

So yes, Cassius could see where Potter was coming from. Even if he didn't like it.

'What would I gain from lying to you, Potter?'

'Oh, I don't know. Build a friendship, only to stab me in the back when it suits you the most – how does that sound?'

 _Impressive. Very impressive._

'Not bad, Potter,' said Cassius, a hint of a smirk ghosting across his face. 'Never thought you Gryffindors would be capable of thinking along such lines – you, least of all.'

Potter glared at him, but didn't say anything. Cassius waited, and sure enough, the intensity of the glare faded, to be replaced by an indifferent look.

'Well, thanks,' said Potter, shortly.

'You're welcome. Though, I suppose me believing you is hardly helping you right now.'

Potter gave a short, humourless laugh. 'You could say that, yeah.' He ran his hands through his unruly hair, making the ends of it stick up even more than usual. 'Merlin, I didn't want this at all – what am I going to do?'

Cassius shrugged. 'Clearly you've got to compete, Potter, that's the rule. But,' he added, 'I'll tell you what you shouldn't do.'

Potter looked up at him, intrigued. 'What's that now?'

'The school is going to be in an uproar over our selections, Potter. Most of them don't want a Slytherin champion –'

At this, Potter shifted slightly, his guilt clearly visible. Cassius ignored him.

'– and most of them – my House included – are going to think you entered it on your own, for a bit of glory and fame.'

'But I didn't –'

'I _know_ , Potter – I've already told you I believe you, so don't bite my head off about it,' snapped Cassius, and Potter fell silent.

'I've been here six years, Potter. Six years of being jeered at by my peers, juniors and seniors, all because of the decision of a stupid old Hat based on my dominant trait of ambition.'

Potter said nothing, but Cassius could tell he was listening keenly.

'I know how to handle the insults that come my way – it's an occupational hazard of being a member of Slytherin House. The students will shout at me, call for my head, demand a re-selection by the Goblet – in short, they'll try to do everything they can to get me out of the picture. But I'm okay with it – I can handle it.

'You, on the other hand, might want to make sure you're prepared for whatever comes your way from tomorrow onwards.'

'What are you trying to tell me, Warrington?'

 _Well, at least one of Draco's statements was true – the boy is thick._

Cassius sighed. 'Your House is going to be impressed by how you managed to fool the Goblet and enter, Potter, but the other Houses may not be so welcoming or jovial about it. It's a delicate situation – they don't want a Slytherin champion, but they don't think you deserve to be in the Tournament, not when there were supposedly more deserving candidates up for selection. Diggory, for instance.'

And finally, Cassius could make out a hint of comprehension dawning on Potter's face. _He took his time._

'There will be a few outspoken ones, of course – the ones who will support either of us outright, or denounce both of us. But it will be fractious at best.'

'So, how does this affect me?'

 _I take that back – he really is dense._

'Merlin's beard, Potter, keep up,' said Cassius impatiently. 'Don't let whatever they say get to your head, that's all. And don't let whatever they _don't_ say get to you either.'

To Cassius' amazement, Potter smirked at that. 'I've had plenty of practice with that, Warrington. Remember the Chamber?'

Cassius had to admit, Potter did have a point. It had escalated so much in his fourth year that people were openly avoiding Potter and anything to do with him, out of fear of him being the supposed Heir of Slytherin.

And yet, something about Potter's smirk told Cassius that it wasn't only during the Chamber incident when the former had had practice.

'Well then, I suppose I don't need to say anything else, Potter,' said Cassius. 'Good night.' He turned to leave.

'Hey, Warrington?'

Cassius turned back to face his fellow champion. Potter was still standing in the same place, but there was a genuine smile on his face – the first Cassius had seen on him all night.

'Thanks. It means a lot that, well, someone other than the professors believe me.'

'Don't mention it, Potter.' And with that, he left, descending the stone steps down towards the dungeons and the Slytherin common room.

It looked like an unspoken truce had been called between the two of them. He didn't know how long Potter would hold onto it – he would certainly break it if it put him at an advantage – but he did know one thing:

Potter was not the average Gryffindor. Certainly not like how Draco had described him to be. Indeed, Cassius got the impression that Potter would have fitted right in to Slytherin House.

In fact, though he would never admit it out loud, Harry Potter had just gained the respect of Cassius Warrington.


	3. Revelations

**The Other Champion**

 **Chapter 2: Revelations**

* * *

 **Author's Note: A bit of a transitionary chapter, this one – from Harry's perspective. We'll get back to Cassius' point of view from Chapter 3, don't you worry! Please read and review!**

 **P.S. I couldn't think of a better chapter title. Any suggestions?**

* * *

 **Disclaimer: Recognizable portions in this chapter have been taken from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, by J.K. Rowling. I neither own nor intend to make any profit from the use of Harry Potter and the associated characters of the series, in my story.**

* * *

 _ **Previously on "The Other Champion"…**_

' _Hey, Warrington?'_

 _Cassius turned back to face his fellow champion. Potter was still standing in the same place, but there was a genuine smile on his face – the first Cassius had seen on him all night._

' _Thanks. It means a lot that, well, someone other than the professors believe me.'_

' _Don't mention it, Potter.' And with that, he left, descending the stone steps down towards the dungeons and the Slytherin common room._

 _It looked like an unspoken truce had been called between the two of them. He didn't know how long Potter would hold onto it – he would certainly break it if it put him at an advantage – but he did know one thing:_

 _Potter was not the average Gryffindor. Certainly not like how Draco had described him to be. Indeed, Cassius got the impression that Potter would have fitted right in to Slytherin House._

 _In fact, though he would never admit it out loud, Harry Potter had just gained the respect of Cassius Warrington._

* * *

In all the years Harry had spent in Hogwarts Castle, the walk to Gryffindor Tower from the Entrance Hall had never felt this long and arduous.

Was anyone ever going to believe him? Or would they all think he'd put himself in the Tournament? But why would they think that – in no way was prepared to compete in three 'highly dangerous' tasks, against three students who had at least three years' of extra magical training and experience. And to compete in front of hundreds of people – being the centre of attention once more? Did they think he would want that? Did they not know how desperately he wanted to be 'normal' – to be 'just Harry' to everyone? Would no one except Ron and Hermione understand?

Scratch that – Ron, Hermione and Cassius Warrington.

Harry had to admit, the selection of Warrington as the Hogwarts champion – he refused to consider himself as a Hogwarts champion at all – was quite out of the blue. He had expected Cedric Diggory from Hufflepuff to make the cut, but it seemed the Goblet had other ideas. Clearly it had no inkling of the animosity that Slytherin House faced from the rest of the student population at Hogwarts.

Warrington was right: he was going to be subject to a lot of slander and rude remarks over his selection during the course of the Tournament. Decades – centuries, even – worth of dislike towards Slytherin House had pretty much sealed his fate once Dumbledore had called out his name. Harry remembered how he had been part of the large contingent that had booed Warrington as he had entered the chamber off the Great Hall.

Now, it seemed Hogwarts had been presented with two unwanted representatives. One, who the rest of the school – apart from Slytherin, of course – didn't want; the other, who himself didn't wish to participate.

But Warrington, despite all that, had believed him. Of course, he had called Harry out for his booing and remarks about how no one wanted a 'Slytherin champion', but he had believed him. And that was a huge relief.

He only hoped that the rest of the school would do so too.

So preoccupied with his thoughts had Harry been, that he was shocked to find himself standing in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady, who guarded the entrance to the Gryffindor common room. It was also a surprise for him when he noticed that she was not alone – the wizened witch who had flitted into her neighbour's painting when he had entered the chamber downstairs was standing next to the Fat Lady, panting heavily. She must have run through seven floors worth of portraits and paintings just to get here before he did.

'Well, well, well,' said the Fat Lady airily, 'Violet's just told me everything. Who's just been selected as the school champion, then?'

'Balderdash,' said Harry in a dull tone.

'It most certainly isn't!' said the wizened, pale witch with no small amount of indignation.

'No, no, Vi,' said the Fat Lady smoothly, 'it's the password.' And she swung forward to let him in.

A blast of noise greeted Harry – it was so loud he was almost knocked flat on his back in the corridor. Next thing he knew, he was being wrenched inside by a dozen pair of hands, and was then face to face with the whole of Gryffindor House, all of whom were screaming, applauding and whistling.

'You should have told us you'd entered!' yelled Fred, slapping his back.

'How did you do it? Without a beard too!' shouted George ecstatically.

'I didn't do it,' he said, slightly overwhelmed by the noise and the crowd. 'I didn't – I don't know how –'

But then Angelina had swooped down upon him: 'At least it's another Gryffindor!'

'Yeah, better you than that Slytherin troll, Warrington!'

'You've got to beat him, Harry!'

'Way to go, Harry!'

The constant cheering and the overbearing chants of 'Harry! Harry!' pounded in his ears; he was jostled about by his House-mates, all of whom wanted to praise him, to raise his spirits, and to speak to him to find out how he had done it, how he had tricked Albus Dumbledore's Age Line and managed to get his name into the Goblet…

It was just too much.

'Enough, please!' he yelled; and to his surprise, it worked. Every single person in the common room fell silent; some even paused mid-way in the tasks they were doing, the sight of which would have, on another day, been quite hilarious for Harry. But not today.

'I didn't put my name in the Goblet of Fire,' he said, in a slightly lower voice, but it was loud enough to carry throughout the entire common room. 'I swear it – I didn't put my name in. I don't know who did it; I certainly didn't ask anyone to do it for me either.'

The entire room was quiet for a few moments. And then –

'You didn't?' It was Katie Bell, one of the Chasers on the Gryffindor Quidditch Team. Her silvery-grey eyes were wide, as though she was just coming to terms with his statement.

He shook his head.

Silence once more. Fred was the first one to recover.

'Come off it,' he said with a grin. 'It's okay, you don't need to convince us otherwise. We know you really –'

'But I didn't, Fred! I didn't put my name in!'

'It's alright, Harry,' said George, coming over from the crowd and patting him on the shoulder. He seemed to be commiserating with Harry, but he could see the mischievous glint in the twin's eyes. 'We understand, you're not going to reveal your secret –'

Harry rounded on him so quickly, George almost toppled over. 'I don't have any secret,' he said, his teeth gritted. 'I didn't put my name in – I'm surprised you guys don't believe me. Especially when Warrington does –'

'Whoa, whoa, wait a tick,' said Fred suddenly, holding his hands up as though signalling him to stop. ' _Warrington_ believes you?'

'Yes,' said Harry simply, his anger deflating out of him as quickly as it had built up. To be honest, he was a bit ticked off with himself: he hadn't expected he would get this angry with the fact that no one believed him. He supposed that, more than anything, he felt incredibly let down that his own House refused to believe him, when his rival champion from the most disliked House in Hogwarts was more willing to accept his version as the truth – which it was.

Most of his House-mates looked stunned at this admission; clearly they had not expected a Slytherin to believe a Gryffindor, especially when there was a chance for the said Slytherin to belittle and put down the Gryffindor. As far as they were concerned, this was a huge upset of the status quo – and now they had no idea what to do.

'Look, I'm sorry for the outburst. Really. I just…' Harry faltered a bit. 'I really need some support right now. I never wanted this – any of this – to happen. But it has, and apparently, I can't get out of it.' He paused once more. 'I have to participate in this Tournament, and it'll be a lot easier if I know that you people believe me.'

The silence that followed this was deafening – no one even twitched as they stared at Harry, the implications of what his statements and his pleas slowly dawning on them.

'Well, if you put it that way…' said Lee Jordan finally.

'We've always supported you, old chap,' said Fred, stepping forward to join Harry, his twin on Harry's other side. 'But – blimey, Harry, who'd want you in this Tournament?'

Harry shrugged. 'I have no idea.' And it was true – he really didn't have a clue who would have wanted him to participate as the fourth person, in a Tournament where only three participants were technically allowed.

A moment later, however, a more pressing question arose in his mind.

 _Why?_

Why would anyone have wanted to enter him into the Tournament? To give him a chance to compete? It wasn't like he wanted to – yes, he had fantasized about it, but they were just that: fantasies. He definitely didn't want any of this: giving him a treat was surely off the list. Was it for him to make a fool of himself? They were going to succeed, if that was the case: he was sure he would fail in each of the tasks quite spectacularly.

But then, quite unbidden, the memory of the conversation in the chamber off the Great Hall pierced his thoughts.

' _A thousand Galleons in prize money — zis is a chance many would die for!'_

' _Maybe someone's hoping Potter is going to die for it.'_

Could it be true? Was this the reason he had been entered into the Tournament – an opportunity to have a go at him, perhaps? Or was Moody just being his own, paranoid self? Who would want him dead anyway?

Quite automatically, an image from his first year at Hogwarts assaulted his mind – one he had had the misfortune of clapping his eyes upon within the bowels of the ancient castle itself…

 _A chalk white face, with glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake..._

Harry shuddered involuntarily, as though a sudden cold draught had blown over him. Yes, Voldemort would certainly want him dead – it had apparently been his desire since Harry had been a one-year old baby.

But Voldemort was supposed to be too weak to carry on…a shadow of his former self, hiding away deep in the forests of Albania – or so Dumbledore had said after the Chamber incident – powerless, frail, alone…

And yet, in the dream he'd had over the summer, Harry had seen Voldemort holding a wand, and he was most certainly not alone…he had been talking to Wormtail – Peter Pettigrew; plotting Harry's murder…

'Are you all right, Harry?'

Katie's soft, worried voice broke through his thoughts; he then realized that he had been standing motionless in front of the entire Gryffindor House, not having said anything else in response to Fred's rather rhetoric question.

Or at least, almost the entire Gryffindor House: he still hadn't caught sight of either Ron or Hermione in the crowd.

He flashed a smile at his Quidditch team-mate, but it was slightly forced rather than reassuring.

'I'm okay,' he said. 'Just a lot to take in right now.' He looked around the crowd, hoping to spot the tell-tale sign of another head of red hair – apart from the twins and Ginny Weasley – or a bushy mane. 'Err – has anyone of you seen –'

He broke off, just as the sound of feet padding down the spiral staircase from the boys' dormitories reached his ears. He turned as Ron came into view, still fully dressed, and a slightly bewildered expression on his face. The youngest Weasley boy looked around the room – just as Harry had done a few moments ago – before his eyes landed on the latter. His bewildered expression vanished, to be replaced by a strained sort of smile.

'Well,' he said, sounding as strained as his grin – or was it a grimace? 'Congratulations.'

'What d'you mean, congratulations?' said Harry, nonplussed. Something was definitely off with Ron's entire demeanour. He dimly noted that every single person in the common room was staring at the pair of them.

'Well,' said Ron again, 'no one got across the Age Line. Not even these two.' He jerked his head in the direction of Fred and George, who for some reason were glaring at their younger brother. Ron didn't seem to notice. 'How did you do it – the Invisibility Cloak?'

Harry couldn't believe what he was hearing. He had counted on at least Ron and Hermione to believe him – even if the rest of his House didn't. He sure as hell had not expected Warrington to take his side. Now, it seemed as though his entire world was flipped upside down in the matter of an hour and a half – Warrington, the Slytherin champion, believed him, and so did the rest of his House-mates; Hermione was nowhere to be found, and Ron…

Ron didn't believe him.

'The Invisibility Cloak wouldn't have got me over that line,' replied Harry, his voice suddenly sounding equally strained. And before Ron could respond to that, he added quickly, 'Ron, I didn't put my name in.'

'Yeah, well,' said Ron, in an entirely sceptical tone, 'only you said this morning that you'd have done it last night without anyone else looking –'

There was a sudden outbreak of muttering amongst the occupants of the common room – it sounded like the faint buzzing of bees, just like how it was in the Great Hall after the fourth name had been spat out. Harry looked over at them, and saw doubtful expressions cross over more than one of their faces.

 _This is ridiculous._

'We were joking!' said Harry, a little too loudly over the buzzing noise. 'You said you wanted to go in for it as well!'

'Only if Fred and George found out a way to fool the impartial judge!' shot back Ron, also quite loudly. 'And they didn't, did they?'

'How d'you reckon I found a way past it, then, if they didn't?' shouted Harry; the buzzing was getting on his nerves, not to mention Ron's stubbornness on the matter – he could feel the onset of a headache. 'You don't see a beard on me, do you?'

'He's got a point, though,' piped up Lavender Brown from the crowd closest to him. 'For all we know, you could have gone to Madam Pomfrey at night to have it removed.'

The headache was getting worse now. 'But the Goblet still wouldn't have accepted my name, even if I was crazy enough to enter!'

'True that,' stated Fred. 'It chucked us out even before we could drop our names inside.' He rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he stared at a point on the wall above Harry's head. 'There's no way Harry could have done it – even if he did use an Invisibility Cloak, which I doubt he has.'

For a moment, Harry considered retaliating at Fred to say that he did own an Invisibility Cloak, but stopped short just in time: no one, apart from Ron, Hermione, Hagrid, Dumbledore, Sirius, and Lupin, knew of the Cloak's existence. And he preferred to keep it that way, at least for the time being. No use attracting more attention than necessary right now.

 _Merlin, the pain is excruciating._

He took a step back, trying to find the wall that separated the girls' and boys' staircases to the respective dormitories; he let out a small sigh of relief as his hands touched the cold stone – he badly needed the support right now. His peripheral vision could make out Lavender looking a bit abashed at her jump to a sudden conclusion, and the others in the immediate vicinity nodding their heads in agreement with Fred's declaration.

Harry returned his gaze from Fred to Ron, who was now looking at his elder brother with a confused expression. 'Then how did his name come out?'

'Someone else must have put it in,' mused George.

'That's what Mad-Eye said,' muttered Harry, still desperately trying to fight off the headache. 'Reckons they put a Confundus Charm on the Goblet…'

 _What on earth is happening to me?_

'Oh, well, I suppose that would do it,' said Fred thoughtfully.

'It'd have to be a really strong one, though,' said Lee, his hands running through his dreadlocks. 'That Goblet is too powerful a magical object to succumb to a charm cast by an average wizard.'

'Who do you know is strong enough to do it, though?' asked Angelina.

Exactly who Lee considered as strong enough to bamboozle the Goblet of Fire into accepting a fourth name, no one found out. At that moment, Harry's head gave a sharp, intense throb, and quite unexpectedly – and decidedly worryingly – his scar burst into pain.

The yell from the Boy-Who-Lived caused more than a few screams and shrieks from the crowd as a reaction. Harry paid them no mind, however – not that he was in any state to do so, anyway – as his knees buckled, and he hit the stone floor with a painful thud. He was dimly aware of Ron jumping forward with a shout of 'Harry!', of Fred and George pushing everyone back and away from him, and of the gasps from a few of his House-mates…

And in the midst of all this, he could hear, as though the source was right next to him, a high, cold, cruel laugh…a maniacal laugh of exultation and satisfaction, and yet it was devoid of any mirth, of any true happiness or joy…

The laughter died away, to be followed by three words, in the same high, cold, voice…

' _It is done.'_

* * *

'Harry! _Harry!_ '

Harry opened his eyes. Ron's face hovered above him as he bent over; he looked quite worried, his freckles standing out against his pale skin.

'What happened?' he asked.

Harry did not answer immediately; he pushed himself up to a seated position against the dividing wall, feeling the cool stone soothe the last vestiges of the receding headache. His scar, however, was throbbing unusually – as though a hammer was gently knocking against his forehead. He had not felt this pain since…

Since the summer, when he'd had that dream of Voldemort and Wormtail.

'What happened?' asked Ron again.

'I…' Harry hesitated. He wanted to tell Ron what he'd heard, but not in front of an audience that comprised of his entire House. As much as he adored his classmates, he didn't prefer sharing private stuff with Lavender and Parvati around.

Ron seemed to get the hint at once. He helped Harry to his feet, and put an arm around his shoulders to support him as they climbed the stairs to their dormitories in silence. Once inside, they shuffled across to Harry's bed, and helped him slump against his pillows. Harry realized just then that he was panting, and it had nothing to do with the stairs he'd just ascended. He willed himself to take deep breaths, fighting a sudden sense of nausea that threatened to overcome him.

Ron had moved across to perch upon the edge of his own bed, his hands gripping the edges of it rather tightly. An array of emotions seemed to flit across his face as Harry glanced at him – as though he was conflicted.

'It was…' began Harry without preamble, then shut his mouth as the vomiting sensation threatened once more. He gulped down a glass of water from his bedside table, revelling in the soothing feeling of the cool liquid sliding down this throat.

He tried again.

'It was Voldemort,' he said finally, ignoring the sudden jerk and wince of Ron upon hearing the name. 'It was just like over the summer…when my scar hurt – you remember –'

'Yeah, I do,' said Ron shortly, his face now impassive. But his fists were still clenched tightly.

'He was laughing…' said Harry slowly, trying to ignore the sound of Voldemort's maniacal laugh that still echoed in his ears as he said so. 'He seemed quite happy about something – and then…'

Ron looked back at him when he trailed off, a faint frown furrowing his brow.

'I heard him say "it is done",' he finished, swallowing heavily at the end.

To say Ron looked shocked would have been an understatement. His eyes widened considerably, the frown replaced with raised eyebrows so high that they were in danger of disappearing into his hairline. His mouth fell open slightly, forming an 'o', as he stared at Harry with what looked like a mixture of horror and disbelief.

'"It is done"? But that – that means…' stammered Ron.

Harry did not need Ron to complete the sentence to know that the latter understood what it meant. He simply nodded as he, for the first time that night, allowed it to fully sink in.

Voldemort had arranged for his name to be put in the Goblet of Fire. Voldemort wanted him, Harry, to compete in the Triwizard Tournament as the fourth champion.

And – although Ron did not know this – at the end of it, Voldemort wanted to kill him.

If there was anything that the experience with cornering Sirius, forcing Pettigrew out of hiding and then helping his godfather escape from the Ministry's clutches had taught Harry, it was that there was always a reason for something to happen. Especially when things happened around him. The few weeks he had spent in the Dursley household over the following summer, before the Weasleys picked him up, had made Harry realize that he needed to question things a lot more. There was no point in sitting down and waiting for things to happen: questioning in hindsight would never worked. Sirius' case was a prime example: if the Ministry had taken the time to question him, he would probably have been free, instead of being wrongly imprisoned in Azkaban for twelve long years.

And so, it was with that frame of mind that Harry posed the next question to himself on this bizarre set of events:

 _How?_

How on earth would Voldemort manage to kill him after he'd been entered into the Tournament? There was no way that Voldemort would be able to travel all the way from Albania to the Scottish highlands and perform the Killing Curse on him. Even if he did do that, Dumbledore was not foolish enough to allow another incident like the possessed Quirrel's infiltration into Hogwarts once again.

Maybe he wanted to have Harry die during the tasks? That could certainly work, mused Harry: lack of magical training and experience, facing up against three other senior, of-age competitors, and tackling three dangerous – and probably fatal – tasks. It definitely seemed like the likely option.

But somehow, Harry felt it wouldn't be what Voldemort would want to do. Somehow, he just knew that Voldemort would want to do it personally, on his own, and without any assistance with the final act of finishing Harry off. He couldn't explain how he knew this, only that it seemed…right.

Speaking of assistance…

Voldemort could not have done this without any aid. He was too weak to travel, no body to speak of, too powerless to do anything on his own…no, he had to have had someone helping him with entering his, Harry's, name into the Goblet of Fire. Was it Wormtail? Harry almost scoffed out loud at this: from what he could remember of the dream he had had over the summer, Voldemort still did not trust Pettigrew; also, the rate was a pitiable excuse for a wizard, in terms of magical strength. Definitely not Wormtail then.

If not him, then who?

Harry almost groaned out loud, his head pulsing once more. It was just too much for the night. The shock of being entered into the Tournament, coupled with the almost civil conversation he'd had with Warrington, his efforts to convince his House-mates of the truth, his argument with Ron, the mini-vision of Voldemort's jubilation, and his subsequent conclusions on Voldemort's motive and objective, seemed to have taken their toll on him; he wanted nothing more than to settle down more comfortably on his pillows and sleep.

'Harry?'

Ron's voice broke through his jumbled thoughts; he diverted his attention away from the seemingly innocent spot on the ceiling above his bed, to his red-headed best friend, who was giving him an almost apologetic look. And almost immediately, Harry knew he didn't need to hear it.

'Harry, I –'

'Forget it,' he said, cutting him off. 'It's okay.'

'No, I shouldn't've –'

'It's okay.'

'But –'

'Drop it, Ron.'

'Harry –'

'Ron, if you try to apologize one more time, I'll hex you.'

That shut Ron up at once. He gave Harry a nervous sort of grin – a complete contrast to how he had been grimacing at Harry's selection not fifteen minutes ago – and Harry grinned back.

A moment later, however, Ron's grin slid off his face. 'So…' he began seriously. 'You-Know-Who, eh?'

Once again, Harry didn't answer the rhetoric, but his silence was enough. Ron shrugged and got up to change into his pyjamas, while Harry did the same, but it was a long time before either of them got to sleep.

* * *

'Where were you?'

Harry and Ron had just stepped out of the portrait hole on their way to breakfast the next day, when they ran into Hermione. Before she could get a word out about the small stack of toast she was carrying in a napkin in her hand, Ron had blurted out the question.

Hermione looked thoroughly nonplussed. 'What?'

'Where were you last night?' said Ron in an almost demanding tone. 'I didn't see you in the common room when Harry got back.'

'Oh,' said Hermione, her confusion clearing up. 'Parvati and Christine were badgering me for details – apparently they thought that I had helped you enter the Tournament, Harry – and they wanted to know how we'd done it.'

'They thought you'd helped me?' said Harry incredulously. The idea was so ludicrous that he almost laughed out loud at it. 'You're not even of age either, how on earth were you supposed to get past the Age Line?'

Hermione shrugged. 'I don't know – I don't claim to understand how their minds work, Harry. Anyway,' she said briskly, 'that's not important.' She held up the stack of toast. 'I brought you this – want to go for a walk?'

Harry was all for the walk – he didn't fancy being left alone by the other Houses if he entered the Great Hall this morning for breakfast: Warrington's words from last night on him being an underserved Hogwarts champion came back to him.

' _Your House is going to be impressed by how you managed to fool the Goblet and enter, Potter, but the other Houses may not be so welcoming or jovial about it. It's a delicate situation – they don't want a Slytherin champion, but they don't think you deserve to be in the Tournament, not when there were supposedly more deserving candidates up for selection. Diggory, for instance.'_

While he had told Warrington that he could handle it – especially after his experience during his second year – he wasn't so sure anymore.

Ron, however, was having none of it. 'Just toast? Not a chance – I need a full breakfast. And you're coming too,' he added, grabbing Harry's arm just as the latter opened his mouth to protest. 'No point in hiding now.'

Defeated, Harry allowed himself to be strong-armed by Ron all the way to the Entrance Hall, Hermione leisurely trailing alongside them. He didn't get a chance to explain what had happened in the chamber off the side of the Great Hall, and after that, to either Ron or Hermione; the corridors were too crowded to hold a private conversation without being overheard.

The bewitched ceiling of the Great Hall showed them the prospect of a murky day ahead: the sun looked to be playing the baby's game of 'peek-a-boo' with them, as it hid behind the grey clouds ever so often, and only coming out once in a while to show off its brilliant radiance. Harry noticed none of this, however; as he entered the Hall for breakfast, the sounds of laughter, cutlery and general chatter that was audible from outside the Hall ceased almost at once. The heads of every occupant of the Hall swivelled to stare at him. Their expressions, however, were unfathomable – well, at least those of the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs: once again, Harry had to concede that Warrington had been correct. The Slytherins were displaying their usual animosity towards him with sneers and glares, while the Gryffindors had simply returned to their meals in silence. The other two Houses seemed in two minds: clearly they did not want to support a Slytherin champion, but they felt Harry was equally undeserving.

Ignoring all of this, Harry resolutely made his way to the Gryffindor table, and took his place alongside Dean, Seamus and Neville, with Ron and Hermione joining him.

'Slept all right, Harry?' asked Seamus, reaching out for the basket of fresh bread that Hermione handed over to him.

'Yeah, I s'pose,' said Harry. Truth be told, he had slept rather well, considering the vision he'd had of Voldemort just prior to that; he hadn't managed to nod off the last time he'd dreamt of Voldemort over the summer.

Ginny Weasley joined them just then, plopping herself next to her brother. 'Blimey, you'd think they'd have better things to do,' she said as she loaded her plate.

'What?'

'Them,' she said, jerking her head behind her, and, raising his head, Harry could see the other students still openly staring at him. He sighed and shrugged.

'Well, it's not unexpected,' he admitted. 'They don't know who to root for: obviously they don't want a Slytherin champion –'

'None of us do,' said Seamus rather hotly.

'– but they don't think I deserve to be a champion either,' finished Harry, ignoring Seamus' interruption.

Ginny stared at him. So did Hermione.

'When did you figure that out?' asked the latter.

Harry shrugged once again. 'Warrington told me last night. He's not too bad, really – smart bloke.'

Both girls looked satisfied with this explanation, and returned to their breakfast. Harry wasn't sure if he should find that insulting or not. He didn't have time to ponder on that, though; Ron, Dean and Seamus were staring at him in shock.

'Warrington told you?' asked Ron, a little bit of disgust creeping into his tone.

'Well, yeah,' said Harry. 'Right after he told me he believed me, he –'

'Wait, _what?_ He told you he believes you?'

Harry stared at him.

'Yeah,' said Harry slowly, 'why? What's wrong with that?'

Ron seemed conflicted; Harry presumed he was feeling guilty of the fact that he had not believed his best friend at once, when his direct competitor from the rival House in school had accepted it without question. But along with that, Harry sensed an emotion of mistrust arising from Ron: his friend had never warmed up to Slytherins.

'I don't believe him,' said Ron flatly. 'He's lying.'

'I thought so too, at first,' admitted Harry, 'but he sounded genuine enough, I dunno…'

Ron's immediate dismissal of Warrington's claim of believing Harry had cast a small seed of doubt in his mind: was he telling the truth? Or was Warrington trying to, as Harry had put it, _'Build a friendship, only to stab me in the back when it suits you the most'_? Granted, Warrington had sounded sincere and frank about it last night…but that could just have been part of an elaborate act on his part. Slytherins were known to be cunning – what would stop Warrington from befriending Harry only for his own personal goals? To become a friend, only to use him when needed, for his own benefit?

As he thought this, the words of the man in question from last night came to his mind:

' _I've been here six years, Potter. Six years of being jeered at by my peers, juniors and seniors, all because of the decision of a stupid old Hat based on my dominant trait of ambition.'_

Ambition…not cunningness, not resourcefulness, not 'being evil' – a quality that Ron was currently espousing to Dean and Seamus about Slytherins and why they couldn't be trusted – but ambition. He was in Slytherin because of his ambition, his desire to get to the top.

 _It's a dominant trait though_ , came a small voice in the back of his mind. _Not the only trait._ He could still be cunning enough to pull off a back-stabbing when he needed it the most. Had he not resorted to underhanded tactics during their last Quidditch match near the end of last year?

But the more Harry remembered of that memorable match – where Gryffindor had finally won the Quidditch Cup for the first time since Charlie Weasley had been the Seeker – the more it came to light that Warrington had been one of the only two players – the other being the Slytherin Keeper – who'd played a clean game. It had been Montague, Flint, Derrick, Bole and Malfoy who'd resorted to their cheating and dirty tactics in order to secure a Slytherin win – at any cost.

 _Still doesn't mean anything_ , stated that small voice firmly. _He could still pull it off._

Before he could argue with that voice – and simultaneously ignore the potential possibility of him being schizophrenic – a chorus of boos and hisses rang around the Hall. Startled, Harry looked up, and almost at once located the reason for the sudden commotion.

Cassius Warrington had entered the Great Hall for breakfast, surrounded by a couple of his fellow sixth-years from Slytherin. Harry vaguely noted that it was quite unlike the way Crabbe and Goyle always flanked Malfoy, as though they were his bodyguards; the other sixth-years seemed to accompanying Warrington as friends of his.

He also noticed the others who were seated with him looking up in surprise. They had expected a certain deal of animosity to be shown towards Warrington, but not at this level. It was as though the entire student body – save a few – were ready to completely renounce Warrington as a representative of Hogwarts in the Tournament.

'Bloody hell,' breathed Ron, only just audible amidst the din of boos and hisses. There were even a few insults and threats yelled at Warrington, some of which caused Ron to raise his eyebrows in astonishment. 'Wow…that was…' He struggled to get the more appropriate words out, and ultimately settled for gawking at the impromptu hate campaign in disbelief.

Harry had to hand it to Warrington though: he barely gave the rest of the school a second glance as he made his way across the Hall to the Slytherin table at the far wall, and with courage worthy enough of a Gryffindor, he sat with his back to the wall and faced his critics and haters as he began to fill his plate.

It was only after a couple of minutes that the chorus of hate spewing across the room began to dissipate, when students finished their breakfast and headed out of the Hall to their first lessons for the day. The glares did not abate, however; many of them glowered and scowled at the Slytherin boy as they exited the Hall. To his credit, Warrington did not look at them, nor did he give any sign or indication that he'd heard or seen them.

' _I know how to handle the insults that come my way – it's an occupational hazard of being a member of Slytherin House. The students will shout at me, call for my head, demand a re-selection by the Goblet – in short, they'll try to do everything they can to get me out of the picture. But I'm okay with it – I can handle it.'_

Harry certainly didn't disagree with his words this time.

* * *

The next two weeks proceeded in an almost eerily similar fashion to the first day after the champions had been announced. While the Slytherins and Gryffindors were displaying their usual hostility towards each other – while at the same time supporting their own champion – the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs were still in two minds on the entire thing. They were yet to decide on whether they wanted to support Harry – the underage, undeserving fourth champion had not yet said anything to disprove the theories that he had somehow hoodwinked the Goblet of Fire into accepting his name, just for a bit of extra fame.

One thing was for sure, though: they were certainly not going to support Cassius Warrington.

Harry was quite thoroughly shocked at the level of dislike and acrimony displayed by the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs towards Warrington's selection: he had been utterly mistaken about the notion that things would improve for the two of them once the school got used to the idea of them being the representatives of Hogwarts. The outrageous insults had died down, of course, but the glares and scowls were still firmly in place. Shouts of 'cheater!' and similar other names continued to be thrown at him; but to his immense credit, Warrington stood his ground and went about his business without too much fuss. Indeed, Harry thought he was achieving miracles by not reacting to everything – he was sure he couldn't have ignored it if he had been in Warrington's position.

Notably, it seemed that the most deserving candidate for being a school champion – or at least someone who everyone had figured would have been one – was doing his best to cool the tensions between the students. Harry had observed Cedric Diggory, on more than one occasion, either telling off some of his House-mates and Ravenclaws for the some unsavoury names they had concocted for Warrington, or patiently explaining to others why they should accept Warrington as the Hogwarts champion. It did not escape Harry's attention that Cedric did not mention him as a champion: he found that it didn't bother him that much, not when he did not consider himself as the rightful Hogwarts champion anyway.

This attitude was certainly helping Harry deal with the unusual pressure that seemed to be building upon him ever since that night. He was going to take part, of that there was no doubt, and he was definitely going to give it his all ('There's no way you're going down without a fight, Harry!' Ron had emphatically declared), but it was always Warrington first, and then him, Harry. He supposed it was the noble streak in him, but it didn't matter either way. Warrington was the Hogwarts champion; he, Harry, was just an unfortunate stowaway on the ship. When it came down to the tasks, if he did win them, it was for the school, and not for himself and that ideal of 'eternal glory'.

He considered it a personal achievement that he had been able to convince his House-mates of this – although this did not stop them from cheering him as a school champion. Harry certainly could not begrudge that from them, and he was grateful that they had agreed not to stoop down to the level of insults and glares that were being shown by Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff students towards Warrington.

It had especially helped him in dealing with the badges that Malfoy had created, in order to show his support for Warrington, while at the same time denounce Harry's participation in the Tournament. Malfoy had been smirking broadly when he'd showed Harry the brightly burning red words on the badge: "Support Cassius Warrington – the REAL Hogwarts Champion"; it got even wider when he'd pressed the badge to parade the next message, this time in green: "POTTER STINKS". The smirk faded quite abruptly, however, when he'd heard Harry's response.

'That's true, Warrington is the real Hogwarts champion,' Harry had said, grinning broadly at Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson – who was standing next to the blonde – and the rest of the Slytherin fourth-year students. 'And as for whether I stink – really, Malfoy, I didn't know you were this concerned on whether I'd taken my daily shower.'

The Gryffindors had howled with glee at this – it was well worth saying such childish remarks to see Malfoy's expression change from triumph to confusion and anger. Clearly, he had not expected Harry to be this flippant about the entire situation.

Despite the near public humiliation, Malfoy had distributed the badges to his fellow Slytherins, doggedly determined to pressure Harry into cracking. It was clear that it wasn't working, though: every time Harry saw a badge being flashed in his vicinity, he would nod and agree with the respective Slytherin, resulting in bewildered and astonished expressions on their faces, and a satisfied grin on Harry's face as he passed them.

As expected, Warrington had refused to wear a badge. He and Harry had developed a sort of truce – if you could call it one – where they remained civil to each other. Of course, their extent of civility was restricted to greetings of 'Potter' followed by a 'Warrington', with head tilts to match, but it was, nonetheless, a start. The sixth-years who were always accompanying Warrington hadn't taken the badges either – and for that, Harry felt oddly grateful.

Considering their civil relations towards each other, this kind of solidarity was not odd – at least not from Harry's point of view. Ron, naturally, was a little thrown-off about the Slytherins not sticking to the status quo of despising Harry; then again, Harry surmised it would take his best friend some time to get over his ingrained prejudice that all Slytherins were evil.

No, what could be considered as really odd was the fact that there were three Slytherin fourth-years – two girls and a boy – who had not taken the badges. Harry didn't know their names, but they were the same ones who had not risen along with the rest of their House to cheer Warrington as his name came out of the Goblet. He didn't feel like asking any of his friends for their names: he had a sneaking suspicion that he would get to know them sooner than later.

He had, however, on Hermione's suggestion – and Ron's agreement to said suggestion – written to Sirius on the whole issue. For some unusual reason, the Daily Prophet had not immediately reported about his selection as the fourth champion; in any case, it gave him the opportunity to write to Sirius a few days after Halloween night: this allowed him to tell his godfather exactly what had been happening within the corridors of Hogwarts castle – his selection, the vision about Voldemort, the reactions to Warrington's selection, and his outlook on the Slytherin being the real Hogwarts champion. He had received a bit of a cold shoulder from Hedwig when he'd told her he couldn't use her to send the letter – she'd cuffed him around the head once again as Ron tied the rolled up parchment to Pigwidgeon's leg – but he was not prepared to risk Sirius' and Hedwig's safety when there were other safer options available.

Harry had been pleasantly surprised to see Pig return with Sirius' response a mere three days after the letter had been sent; he conveniently chose to ignore the slight trepidation that triggered inside him: a three day return journey for Pig meant that Sirius was a lot closer to Hogwarts than Harry had expected. He snatched the madly twittering owl from its circumambulations over their heads as they worked on their homework in the Gryffindor common room, untied the piece of parchment and, after checking that no one else was around, smoothed it out on the table in front of him for them to read.

 _Harry –_

 _I can't say everything I would like to in a letter, it's too risky in case the owl is intercepted — we need to talk face-to-face. Can you ensure that you are alone by the fire in Gryffindor Tower at one o'clock in the morning on the 20_ _th_ _of November?_

 _I know better than anyone that you can look after yourself and while you're around Dumbledore and Moody I don't think anyone will be able to hurt you. It seems as though they've lost the first round, however: entering you in the Tournament, right under Dumbledore's nose, appears to have accomplished part of the plan._

 _We'll talk more about this on the 20_ _th_ _of November, if you can make it – let me know. In any case, be on the watch, Harry. I still want to hear about anything unusual. Give my regards to Ron and Hermione._

 _Sirius_

The reply had resulted in the release of a number of conflicting emotions inside of Harry: shock at the fact that Sirius was going to meet him in Gryffindor Tower of all places, and anticipation that he'd be able to see his godfather again. But the most dominant feeling was that of fear – Sirius' mention of the 20th of November had made Harry realize that the first task was on the 24th, and he had absolutely no idea as to what to do. Mr Crouch's words from that night kept coming back to haunt him –

' _The first task is designed to test your daring, so we are not going to be telling you what it is. Courage in the face of the unknown is an important quality in a wizard…very important…'_

Despite whatever Mr Crouch had said about courage being an important quality – and it certainly was one for a Gryffindor – Harry was feeling as though all his reserves of courage had deserted him. As the days ticked on, the first task drew steadily nearer, and despite the brave and almost nonchalant front he presented to his House-mates and the school regarding the whole situation, his insides were squirming with fear and worry. The nerves he was suffering were way beyond anything he had ever experienced – not during his exams, or even before a Quidditch match.

He had written back to Sirius almost at once, agreeing to be near the fire in Gryffindor Tower at the designated time – a friendly face was bound to help in this scenario – but admittedly, he could not see how his godfather would been able to help him in having to perform an unknown piece of difficult and dangerous magic in front of hundreds of people. The three of them had spent a good amount of time going over plans for forcing stragglers out of the common room on the night in question; once that was done, they decided to do some research on what the first task could possibly be. Harry found their dedication and help very comforting.

It was during one of these research sessions in the library, around twelve days before the first task, that they were interrupted by Colin Creevey. They were supposed to have been in Herbology that morning, but there had been unusually strong winds blowing about since the previous night, forcing the class to be abandoned. The three of them had taken the opportunity to dig deeper into the issue, which so far had not resulted in any semblance of success.

'Hiya Harry!' said Colin rather enthusiastically as he approached their table. Colin, a year younger than Harry, had always been very fascinated by Harry, and considered him as a sort of hero. This unfortunately resulted in more than a few embarrassing encounters with the excitable third-year Gryffindor; it also didn't help that Colin's voice was, in his excitement, quite loud and breathless. So it came as no surprise when Madam Pince, the vulture-like librarian, marched over to Colin and reprimanded the poor kid for being too loud in the library.

Properly chastised, Colin made his way closer to them. 'Right, well,' he said in a softer voice, 'Harry, Mr Bagman was looking for you.'

Harry looked at him, bewildered. 'Mr Bagman? Why?'

'Dunno,' shrugged Colin. 'Said something about a wand-weighing ceremony, and some photographs…'

Harry would have given anything for Colin to not say the word 'photographs'. Hermione had explained the rationale behind Ron's initial reaction towards Harry's selection as a champion – his jealousy at Harry always being the centre of attention had won out over his loyalty and friendship – and Harry was not keen on rekindling those feelings in Ron once again.

Thankfully, Ron seemed to have missed the last words of Colin's sentence; he was busy giggling quietly into his knuckles, which he had stuffed into his mouth to minimize the noise. Harry shot him a puzzled look, but the red-head was too pre-occupied to notice. Harry saw Hermione throw Ron a disgusted look – clearly she knew what Ron had found this hilarious – before returning to the book in front of her.

'Oh,' said Harry to Colin. 'Erm, okay then. Right now?'

'Yeah,' said Colin, already moving towards the door of the library.

Harry gave Ron and Hermione – the former had stopped giggling, but was still sporting a broad grin on his face – a helpless shrug, before packing his things and following Colin out of the library. The fact that Bagman wanted him just seemed to drive the point home that he was running out of time for the first task.

He could only hope that there were no more nasty surprises in store for him.


	4. Wands and Scars

**The Other Champion**

 **Chapter 3: Wands and Scars**

* * *

 **Author's Note: Back to Cassius' POV now. A slight filler chapter again – just a few incidents that take place, to set-up the story. Quite a deviation from canon here, because Cassius' selection wasn't a good enough change.**

 **Oh, and there is a surprise in this – part of the chapter is from someone else's POV! Who? Now, you'll have to read it to find out.**

 **Special thanks to Dorothea Greengrass, a truly wonderful fellow FF Net author and reader, who very graciously agreed to read over this chapter before I uploaded it, while giving me some pointers too. Thank you, Dorothea!**

 **Also, to all those celebrating – Happy Easter!**

* * *

 **Disclaimer: Recognizable portions in this chapter have been taken from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, by J.K. Rowling. I neither own nor intend to make any profit from the use of Harry Potter and the associated characters of the series, in my story.**

* * *

 _ **Previously on "The Other Champion"…**_

 _Thankfully, Ron seemed to have missed the last words of Colin's sentence; he was busy giggling quietly into his knuckles, which he had stuffed into his mouth to minimize the noise. Harry shot him a puzzled look, but the red-head was too pre-occupied to notice. Harry saw Hermione throw Ron a disgusted look – clearly she knew what Ron had found this hilarious – before returning to the book in front of her._

' _Oh,' said Harry to Colin. 'Erm, okay then. Right now?'_

' _Yeah,' said Colin, already moving towards the door of the library._

 _Harry gave Ron and Hermione – the former had stopped giggling, but was still sporting a broad grin on his face – a helpless shrug, before packing his things and following Colin out of the library. The fact that Bagman wanted him just seemed to drive the point home that he was running out of time for the first task._

 _He could only hope that there were no more nasty surprises in store for him._

* * *

It had been a very strange two weeks.

Granted, Cassius had predicted this sort of reaction from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff over his selection as Hogwarts champion – the latter because they thought Diggory was infinitely better and more deserving of it, and the former simply because having a Slytherin champion was something they could not stomach. The two weeks of verbal brickbats, name-calling, and the constant buzzing of hisses, boos and irritated mutters from the students of those Houses had been expected, and normal.

Well, normal to any Slytherin student, at least. He was sure Potter would have had a fit – whether of rage or of utter despondency and abandonment, he did not know – over such reactions if their places had been swapped. That Weasley boy had almost had an aneurysm when the insults came flying in during breakfast the day after his selection – Cassius was sure the boy had never heard such language from the usually mild-mannered Hufflepuffs and the bookish Ravenclaws.

Then again, those two Houses got along quite well with Gryffindor, so Weasley would never have known – or understood – the complete volte-face they did when interacting with Slytherins.

So, no, this was normal. And he was quite used to it; like he'd told Potter, he had six years of experience in dealing with this, right up his sleeve. It wasn't anything entirely new for him. In any case, the presence of his friends had helped him manage the entire situation with a level-head and a calm demeanour. Adrian Pucey and Terence Higgs, just like the rest of his House-mates, had been ecstatic when his name had come out of the Goblet, and had immediately organized an impromptu party for him by the time he'd returned to the Slytherin common room. They had, however, solemnly agreed to stand by him and accompany him to breakfast the next day – something which he had insisted was not necessary, but they did it anyway; Cassius felt touched, and quite relieved, by the gesture.

The odd thing about it all was the reaction of the Gryffindors. He had almost surely expected an equal amount of insults from them – and probably even impromptu duels breaking out in the corridors between them and his House-mates – but to his amazement, not one adverse word or look was sent by them in his direction. Indeed, it was as though they had – dare he say it – accepted him as the Hogwarts champion, the minor inconvenience of being a Slytherin aside.

But the more he thought about it over those two weeks, the more he was inclined to the theory that Potter had something to do with it all. What had he done, Cassius did not know, and nor did he think he wanted to know. All he knew was that it was one less House that he had to deal with, and for that, he was grateful.

Unfortunately, the same could not be said of his own House. He had, rather unsuccessfully, attempted to convince his House-mates that Potter had not entered the Tournament of his own volition, but when that group included people like Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson, half the argument was already lost.

And so, just like Cassius had always done after his own 'awakening' – as he liked to call it, which would elicit theatrical groans of despair from Adrian and Terence – he decided to fight it out in his own way, by refusing to take the stupid badges that Draco had developed.

 _Shame he doesn't use his intelligence for his schoolwork – he could have been a genius._

'Draco, do you really think it makes sense for me to wear that badge in public?' Cassius had demanded of the blonde boy when the latter had offered the obnoxious red and green flashy thing to him.

'But you're the real champion! Everyone needs to know that!' Draco had said, in an annoying whine.

Cassius had sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to stave off expressing his annoyance at the thick-headedness of this boy.

'Think, Draco,' he had said, slowly, as though he were talking to a small child – and for all intents and purposes, he could have as well been doing so. 'I have told Potter than I believe him, and have managed, somewhat, to gain his trust, if not entirely.'

'Yeah, so?'

'That trust is an advantage, Draco. An advantage I could potentially utilize later during the Tournament in my favour. Wearing this badge would ruin it entirely, don't you think?'

It had taken a few moments, but finally Draco had nodded in agreement, and moved away to distribute the badges to Montague, Derrick and Bole.

He knew he had made the right choice, when an expression of relief ghosted across Potter's features the next time they passed each other on their way to their classes. It was a brief flash, and Potter had done well to hide it immediately, but it was a good start. He supposed he owed it to Potter, especially after learning about the Gryffindor's witty retort when Draco had showed off the badges. He was oddly touched by what Potter had said about him, Cassius, being the only champion; of course, it was a shame that he hadn't been there to see the expression on the blonde's face – he was sure it would have been priceless.

It was rather by chance that he'd learnt of Potter's words, actually – but for once, Cassius took it as a sign of good luck that he was there at the right place at the right time. Adrian had pointed out that there were three fourth-years who hadn't taken the badges from Draco, and had been whispering about Potter's mini-humiliation of Draco amongst themselves. At first thought, this news was surprising, until Adrian told him who they were: Blaise Zabini, Tracey Davis, and Daphne Greengrass.

He had a bit of an idea regarding Blaise's behaviour, and more than a bit when it came to Tracey. The former was quite the loner, preferring to spend time with himself and a select group of people. In this first two years, that had included Theodore Nott; but Nott had gravitated towards Malfoy when the blonde had gained some clout in the Slytherin common room, leaving the dark-skinned Italian to himself. Cassius wasn't sure whether it was Nott deserting him as a friend that had caused it, or just Draco's attitude and behaviour in general, but Blaise had developed a healthy dislike for Draco. Indeed, it seemed as though he had a dislike for everyone in the House, save those two girls, but everyone had attributed that to his mother and his numerous step-fathers who had died.

Tracey was, to his astonishment when he'd found out, a witch born to two Squib parents, both of whom had been cast out by their ashamed pure-blood families. It made her a pure-blood by origin, yes, but not the best origin to have – and certainly not something to brag about in a House which prided itself on the absolute purity of blood. Having Squib relatives was a matter of shame to most families; having Squib parents, and being magical, somehow presented a tainted image of you and your parents; although Cassius was yet to understand the twisted logic behind this. In any case, Tracey mostly kept to herself, Blaise, and her best friend, Daphne Greengrass.

The presence of Daphne Greengrass had, admittedly, initially caused Cassius' eyebrows to shoot up so high, they were in danger of disappearing. Rumours of a potential alliance for marriage between the Greengrass and Malfoy families had been circulating ever since the two of them had joined Hogwarts – whether it was with Daphne, or her younger sister Astoria, was still unconfirmed. In any case, despite her aloof and introverted nature, he had assumed that Daphne would have been one of the front-runners in supporting Draco and his petty schemes – after Pansy Parkinson of course. He was oddly grateful that he had been utterly wrong about it.

He knew that she, like her two friends, kept to herself; he also knew that she was pretty vicious and deadly when antagonized. It was almost an unspoken rule that you never got on the wrong side of Daphne Greengrass; the consequences for doing so were quite severe, as per several first-hand accounts. It was also quite difficult for someone to get to know her – Tracey and Blaise usually played the role of bodyguards to head people off – but on the off-chance that they weren't around, Daphne was apparently more than capable of chasing unwanted people away. Her frigid stare and her biting sarcastic retorts had earned her the moniker 'The Ice Queen' – a title which Cassius personally thought was rubbish and unnecessary.

Still, the 'Queen' part of it was something he could agree with: Daphne was one of the best-looking girls in Hogwarts. Unfortunately, her good looks and acute fashion sense had caused more than one male from a pureblood family to consider her as an ideal companion and wife – a perfect addition to their respective families. It was apparently due to this that she had developed her cold, freezing glare; though Cassius had never been on the receiving end of it himself, it was common knowledge that it was not a pleasant experience altogether.

Cassius had never found out about her parents and their stand towards the Dark Lord and his beliefs. The potential association of her family with the Malfoys had sparked gossip suggesting that theirs was a Dark family, with all its members openly supporting the Dark Lord; but Cassius knew they had not done so. If that had indeed been the case, he was sure his own father would have tried to get Daphne as a daughter-in-law for the Warrington family – something which he, Cassius, was thankful that it had not happened.

Otherwise, he would have never had the chance to meet –

 _No. It's over. Don't think about it._

The things he had had to deal with over these past two weeks were more than enough, He did not need to add to it with anything else. Especially not with… _that_.

In any case, none of it even mattered. He was just inwardly glad that there were some people in his own House who believed him that Potter didn't enter the Tournament by himself. Whether they supported Cassius or not was a different issue – judging by what he had found out, they did not stand with Draco, Pansy or any of their twisted beliefs. Given that his public image to the rest of Slytherin House was consistent with what Draco had been spouting off, he supposed they would have the same opinion of him as they had of Draco. Cassius was not too bothered with this – he knew he could not satisfy everyone in the room; plus, he was doing it for his own safety, and not for their comfort.

Cassius sighed, stretching himself as he got up from the high-backed chair near the fire in the Slytherin common room. It had been a long and arduous two weeks. He could only hope that the remaining two weeks – up till the first task – would be easier.

* * *

The classroom was small, and had not been used in quite a while, if the dust sitting on the window-sills and the desks pushed to the side of the room was anything to go by. Looking around, he noticed three of them placed end-to-end in front of the blackboard, and covered with a long length of velvet. Five chairs had been placed behind these desks, and Ludo Bagman was seated in one of them, talking to –

 _Oh, no. Not her._

If there was ever a person to use the title of 'Queen' for, it would have been the woman who Bagman was currently conversing with excitedly.

 _Queen Harpy._

Cassius had never met Rita Skeeter in person, something he was extremely thankful for. He had heard stories about her during those many parties his father had hosted at home, or which he had attended along with his parents. She had an uncanny ability to find out what she wanted, from whoever she wanted it from – apparently, even top secret information wasn't top secret where Rita was concerned. And it was due to this ability that she had made more than a few enemies, and even more acquaintances and…well-wishers. Money and favours were the currency she traded in, most of which were provided by snotty, rich families who were desperate to keep their secrets out of the public eye.

Even the Ministry of Magic had not been spared, and for them, Skeeter apparently had a no-holds barred policy: get in, get the information, get out, and publish. The number of scams and fiascos that had been unearthed by her were staggering – a number that was almost matched by those scandals that she had created on her own. Some said she did it for her twisted pleasure, others said it was to settle a score… Whatever it was, Barnabas Cuffe did not care for it, or how much he had to pay her to keep her happy, as long as he got his share the rewards. And did he reap them well: readership of the Daily Prophet had increased almost twenty-fold since Rita Skeeter had joined as their special correspondent and journalist.

 _A true Slytherin, all the way._

Forcing himself to look away from her, Cassius did a cursory glance of the rest of the room. Viktor Krum was standing moodily in a far corner, not talking to anybody, and casting surly glances all around the room. Fleur Delacour was gazing out the window onto the lawns below – she looked a lot more peaceful than Cassius had seen over the last two weeks. The winds from last night and this morning had eased out – the light from the mid-day sun caught her long-silvery hair, making it sparkle. Potter, however, was nowhere to be seen.

Cassius managed to catch Krum's eye, and strode over to stand next to the Bulgarian.

'Good morning,' he said, trying to sound pleasant and friendly.

Krum looked at him. 'Good morning,' he grunted, his voice a little gruff and hoarse.

'Any idea what this is all about?' The young Slytherin second-year who had collected Cassius from his Charms class had not elaborated on what Bagman had wanted.

For some reason, Krum scowled at the question. 'Vand-veighing,' he said. 'And photos.'

Cassius nodded in response. The wand-weighing ceremony was a traditional pre-cursor to the main tasks of the Tournament – to check if the wands of the champions were in good working condition. It was especially necessary, considering that the first task usually involved the champions allowed to compete only with their wands, and nothing more. It also allowed enough time for the champions to purchase another wand, should their original one be deemed unfit for use.

This event also gave the media an opportunity to take the first photos of the champions and the judges, while also beginning their official coverage of the Tournament by interviewing the champions. Most news outlets sent their best – or at least above average – reporters to take the interviews; the Tournament gave them the avenue to spike their readership by providing some juicy news or gossip relating to the champions or the organizers.

 _That explains her presence._

A knock on the closed classroom door caught their attention, and everyone looked around as Potter entered the room, looking a little apprehensive. Cassius supposed no one had told Potter what was going to happen, and even if they had, he had not understood. He shut the door behind him and stepped further into the room, just as Bagman came bounding over to him.

'Ah, here he is! Champion number four! In you come, Harry, in you come … nothing to worry about, it's just the wand weighing ceremony, the rest of the judges will be here in a moment –'

'Wand weighing?' Cassius heard Potter ask, his tone betraying his nervousness.

'We have to check that your wands are fully functional, no problems, you know, as they're your most important tools in the tasks ahead,' said Bagman. 'The expert's upstairs now with Dumbledore. And then there's going to be a little photo shoot. This is Rita Skeeter,' he added, gesturing toward Skeeter, who Cassius just noticed was wearing robes in a glaring shade of magenta. 'She's doing a small piece on the tournament for the Daily Prophet…'

'Maybe not that small, Ludo,' said Skeeter, her eyes on Potter.

Cassius noticed her clutching her crocodile-skin handbag, her nails painted in a garish crimson. He narrowed his eyes as she undid the clasp of her handbag quietly; Potter, who was too focused on what she was saying, did not pay attention.

'Certainly!' said Bagman, a bit too loudly. 'That is – if Harry has no objection?'

Cassius didn't hear what was said next, but almost immediately, Skeeter had grabbed Potter's upper arm and was steering him out of the classroom.

 _I have a bad feeling about this._

Even if Cassius had known that he had just quoted one of the most famous lines from a Muggle movie, he would not have bothered. Potter was going to be in a lot of trouble if that interview was completed – Skeeter's quill was sharper than her tongue and her nails. Not the best way for the young Gryffindor to start the Tournament, whatever anyone said.

That being said, Cassius was definitely not going to be the one to rescue Potter out of that mess. He knew a number of excuses and reasons that he could have used to get Potter out of Skeeter's clutches, but he was not about to run off and use them on Skeeter. The Warrington family had a number of secrets to protect, not to mention he had quite a few of them too; plus, a Slytherin rescuing a Gryffindor? Skeeter would have a field day with that.

As he waited for Potter to return, Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime and Mr Crouch entered the room, followed by Dumbledore, deep in conversation with Mr Ollivander. He noticed Dumbledore look around the room, beckoned Bagman over to a have quick word, then stride out of the room just as hurriedly; and a minute later, Potter rushed back into the room, as though he was trying to run away from someone.

 _Poor chap._

Dumbledore re-entered the room, followed by Skeeter herself, looking quite pleased; clearly, she'd had a good interview with Potter, going by her wide grin. She settled herself down at the other end of the room, extract a bit of parchment from her bag which she spread on her knee, suck on the end of a green quill which she'd also taken out from her bag, and place it once more on the parchment; the quill balanced itself rather finely on its sharp point, before zooming across the parchment, evidently writing something.

'Champions, if you please,' said Dumbledore. Cassius looked towards the blackboard; Dumbledore was standing behind the velvet-covered desks, gesturing towards chairs that had been placed near the door. They crossed the room and took their seats; Cassius ended up sitting next to Potter, who still looked quite nervous and flustered.

'All right, Potter?' he whispered quietly, so that the other champions and the judges couldn't hear.

Potter looked at him in mild surprise, but nodded all the same, before refocusing on Dumbledore, who was speaking once again.

'May I introduce Mr Ollivander?' The Headmaster gestured towards the old wand-maker standing quietly by the window. 'He will be checking your wands to ensure that they are in good condition before the Tournament.'

Cassius saw Potter turn and jump slightly; clearly he had just noticed Mr Ollivander's presence in the room.

'Mademoiselle Delacour, could we have you first, please?" said Mr. Ollivander, stepping into the empty space in the middle of the room.

Fleur Delacour swept over to Mr Ollivander and handed him her wand.

'Hmm…' he said.

He twirled the wand between his long fingers like a baton and it emitted a number of pink and gold sparks. Then he held it close to his eyes and examined it carefully.

'Yes,' he said quietly, 'nine and a half inches…inflexible…rosewood…and containing…dear me…'

'An 'air from ze 'ead of a Veela,' said Fleur in her heavily accented English. 'One of my grandmuzzer's.'

 _Well, that certainly explained it._

Cassius had noticed Fleur almost immediately as she had exited the Beauxbatons carriage; her beauty was quite unparalleled and enchanting. And yet, it was odd – a number of his friends and House-mates had felt as though they needed to impress her, or stare at her for hours on end. Cassius had not thought much of it – his friends were young teenagers after all – until Fleur had mentioned the components of the core of her wand. Being a part-Veela would have meant that she would have the…ability…to enhance her beauty and attract the attention of people in the vicinity. A Veela's allure, they called it.

'Yes,' said Mr Ollivander, 'yes, I've never used Veela hair myself, of course. I find it makes for rather temperamental wands…however, to each his own, and if this suits you…'

Mr Ollivander ran his fingers along the wand, apparently checking for scratches or bumps; then he muttered, ' _Orchideous!_ ' and a bunch of flowers burst from the wand tip.

'Very well, very well, it's in fine working order,' said Mr Ollivander, scooping up the flowers and handing them to Fleur along with her wand. 'Mr Krum, if you please.'

As Fleur glided back to her seat, Viktor Krum got up and slouched, round-shouldered and duck-footed, towards Mr Ollivander. He thrust out his wand and stood scowling, with his hands in the pockets of his robes.

'Hmm,' said Mr Ollivander, 'this is a Gregorovitch creation, unless I'm much mistaken? A fine wand-maker, though the styling is never quite what I…however…'

Cassius barely heard or saw what Mr Ollivander did next with Krum's wand – the name that the wand-maker had mentioned had stirred something within his memory.

 _Gregorovitch…_

The wand-maker from Eastern Europe…the one who had tried to experiment on different woods and cores for his wands…who said he had found a breakthrough – located an ancient wand, previously lost in history – a wand that was considered to be the most powerful wand in existence…

 _The Elder Wand…_

A loud BANG echoed in the room, and Cassius jumped slightly, his hand moving automatically to the pocket of his robes, where he kept his wand; but almost immediately, he saw a number of small, twittering birds fly out of the end of Krum's wand – Mr Ollivander must have performed the Conjuration Spell for birds – _Avis_.

'Good,' said Mr Ollivander, handing Krum back his wand. 'Mr Warrington, you next.'

Cassius passed Krum as he made his way to the middle of the room, very aware of everyone's eyes on him. He pulled out his wand from his robes, and handed it over to Mr Ollivander without a word.

'Ah, yes,' said Mr Ollivander, a little more enthusiastic than he had been when examining Fleur and Krum's wands. 'This is one of mine, isn't it? Yes, yes…I remember it quite well. Containing a feather from the tail of a rather reclusive phoenix, even by their usual standards…took me a number of days to finally track it down. Ebony…twelve inches…quite unyielding, if I may say so…'

Out of the corner of his eye, Cassius noted Potter staring at him as though he was seeing him for the first time. He found it slightly disconcerting, and unnerving.

Cassius turned back to Mr Ollivander, who waved his ebony wand, sending a stream of silver smoke rings across the room.

'It's in fine condition, Mr Warrington,' he said finally, a satisfied smile on his face. 'Treat it well.'

'Of course,' replied Cassius with a brief nod.

Mr Ollivander returned it with a small bow of his head, then straightened up and said, 'Which leaves…Mr Potter.'

Cassius returned to his seat just as Potter handed his wand to Mr Ollivander. The old wand-maker smiled as he took the wand, his pale eyes suddenly gleaming in what could only be termed as child-like fascination.

'Aaaah, yes,' said Mr Ollivander, turning over the wand in his hands, so gently as though it were a fragile thing, breakable at the slightest of incorrect touches. 'Yes, yes, yes. How well I remember…'

Cassius did not think too much of Mr Ollivander's reaction at first: the wand-maker had always had that enraptured expression when it came to dealing with wands, especially when he met the owners of those he had already sold. But as the minutes ticked by, with Mr Ollivander muttering 'Curious, very curious', and Potter getting nervous once more, his interest was piqued. What could possibly be there in Potter's wand that demanded this much attention?

Cassius tried to look closer at the wand from his seat, but it was pointless: he could not make out the nature of the wood, although it did seem like it was of a reasonable length. A bit shorter than his own…ten, eleven inches, perhaps?

He got his answer just a few moments later.

'Holly,' breathed Mr Ollivander, his eyes still staring at the wand intently. 'Yes…holly…eleven inches, containing a single feather from the tail of a phoenix…' Cassius thought he saw Mr Ollivander's eyes inadvertently flicker to Dumbledore for the briefest moment at this point, but he couldn't be sure. 'Nice and supple, yes…'

Phoenix feather…so that's why Potter had been staring at him.

Wand-lore and wand-crafting had intrigued Cassius ever since he had obtained his wand. His desire to understand what made the wand choose the wizard, instead of the other way around, led him to spend his spare time holed up in the Hogwarts and Warrington Mansion libraries, surrounded by books on these topics. Almost luckily for him, he had stumbled across a book written by Gerbold Octavius Ollivander – who he later realized was Garrick Ollivander's grandfather – on the potential woods and cores that wand-makers used in his day. Of course, there were numerous difference between what was written, and what was actually used by Garrick Ollivander, but it was a priceless introduction into the world of wand-lore – from the handwritten notes of Gerbold Ollivander.

It was based on these studies, that he came to know that wands with a phoenix feather as their cores were quite rare, since getting a phoenix to willingly part with its feathers was a huge challenge – a monumental task, actually – for wand-makers. Some said it was easier to get the hair from the tail of a unicorn, despite their reclusive nature and the extreme difficulty in getting close to a live one. Even so, phoenix feather cores usually matched with those capable of doing spectacular magic – or at least those with the potential to do so. It was not easy to get a phoenix core wand matched to a witch or wizard.

And a holly wand! That was something – it was a very rare wood to use, for the performance of a wand crafted from holly varied quite dramatically on the basis of the core; phoenix feather, for example, could not be teamed up with holly so easily. But when they did match up, the wand – and the owner of that wand – was destined for great things.

 _Great things indeed._

Mr Ollivander finally made a fountain of wine shoot out of Potter's wand, before deeming it in excellent working condition for usage in the Tournament.

'Thank you all,' said Dumbledore quickly, standing up at the judges' table. 'You may go down for lunch, seeing that your lessons are about to end –'

Cassius and the other champions stood up, feeling quite hungry after the unusually long wand-weighing ceremony, but suddenly, a man carrying a black camera jumped up and cleared his throat loudly.

'Photos, Dumbledore, photos!' cried Bagman excitedly. 'All the judges and champions, what do you think, Rita?'

'Er – yes, let's do those first,' said Skeeter, her eyes roving over the champions to finally rest on Potter. 'And then perhaps some individual shots.'

 _Merlin, this is going to take a while._

Finally, after spending more than half an hour on posing for multiple photos, and adjusting their poses for each shot, the champions were free to go for lunch. The bell signalling the start of lunch had already chimed ten minutes back, and none of the champions seemed to have the intention of finishing their lunch late, and consequently turning up late for their next lesson.

Of course, it seemed as though Potter wanted to get out of that room to get away from Skeeter as far as possible. Cassius couldn't blame him – Skeeter was a vile woman as it is, but to have had an interview with her was not the best experience one could have gone through. Unless, of course, one was being interviewed to spill the beans on someone else.

Somehow, Cassius found himself walking briskly alongside Potter as they made their way down to the Great Hall.

'Your wand has a phoenix feather, too?' asked Potter, suddenly.

Cassius looked over at him; Potter looked as though he had been bursting to ask that question ever since Mr Ollivander had announced it in the classroom.

'Well, you heard Mr Ollivander, didn't you?' replied Cassius. Potter looked mildly affronted with the rather blunt response, but it was true: rhetoric questions like those deserved such responses; Cassius chose to conveniently ignore the fact that his response was a rhetoric question in itself. Not expecting a response from Potter in any case, Cassius did not break his stride, turning left onto another long corridor that would lead them to the second floor.

It was a few seconds – and a good ten feet – later, when Cassius realized that he was walking alone; he turned around, and to his surprise, found Potter standing near a tapestry of a group of sixteenth-century monks, who were no doubt enjoying a night of revelry.

'I didn't take you for someone to admire artwork such as this, Potter,' said Cassius, coming up to stand next to him and looking over the tapestry. Potter scowled at him, while the inebriated monks were in two minds between being on their best behaviour, or looking offended at Cassius' insinuation.

'I wasn't admiring the artwork,' Potter bit back, and right then, Cassius could see why Draco always got a kick out of riling Potter and his friends up – the feeling of making someone frustrated and irritated only through your words was quite intoxicating.

Cassius only smirked in response, eliciting a deeper scowl from Potter.

'There's a short-cut behind this tapestry, it leads to the top of the marble staircase,' said Potter at last, seemingly after a very brief inner conflict he had put himself through. Cassius supposed the Gryffindor had been debating whether or not to reveal a secret passageway to a rival champion, and a Slytherin no less, but the good, noble side of Potter evidently won out. In any case, this was news to Cassius: he had never known of a short-cut that would take them right next to the top of the marble staircase, if what Potter was saying was true.

'Well, lead on, then,' said Cassius, gesturing to the tapestry. Potter gave him a slight glare, but pushed the tapestry aside anyway, revealing a rather dimly-lit passageway heading downwards. Clearly Potter had used this before, for he stepped forward with ease and surety and began to climb down. A raised eyebrow in place in intrigue, Cassius followed him.

It did not take long, considering that it was a staircase that they had to descend, but the transition from the brightly lit corridors to this quite contrasting dark place was eerie enough, even for Cassius, who had to pass through some dingy corridors in the dungeons just to reach the Slytherin common room.

At last, they reached the end of the passageway; a small push by Potter on the barrier revealed the opening in a small section that marked the entrance to the Transfiguration corridor, a little way off from the top of the marble staircase.

'Impressive, Potter,' remarked Cassius, as Potter slipped out of the opening; he turned back to keep the tapestry open for Cassius to come through. 'How did you find out about this?'

Potter gave a mysterious smirk, the kind which told more than any words uttered at that time. 'I have my ways,' he said, his green eyes glinting in the sunlight that streamed through one of the many windows in the hallway. For a moment, Potter looked quite…intimidating, and he was being very suave about it.

Until he turned around, and promptly collided with someone who was coming from the Transfiguration corridor. With yells of shock and fright, the two of them – Potter and the unknown person – fell onto the floor in a tangle of limbs, made even more complicated by their immediate attempts to get free of each other.

Cassius could not help it – he burst out laughing at the sight of Potter crashing to the floor in the most ungainly manner possible. His mirth only increased as he got a better look at the person – the girl – who was currently trying to extract herself from Potter's unintended grasp.

 _The Boy-Who-Lived, and the Queen. How fitting._

* * *

Daphne Greengrass was having an unremarkable day.

As per routine, she had woken up, freshened up, eaten her usual fill of breakfast, and gotten ready for her first lesson of the day, History of Magic with the Ravenclaws. An hour and half of listening to Binns' drone on about goblin wars and rebellions later – with Tracey, thankfully, taking notes, while Blaise's eyes remained half-closed throughout the lecture – they followed the Ravenclaws to Transfiguration, where Professor McGonagall woke them all up from their drowsy state to continue their attempts to turn hedgehogs into pincushions.

'Blimey, that was a nightmare,' moaned Tracey as the bell rang to signal the start of lunch. 'I couldn't get my hedgehog to stay still – my spell kept going off target.'

Daphne hmm-ed non-committedly; her Transfiguration attempt had been quite successful, although the pincushion did curl up in fright when she tried approaching it with more than three pins at once.

'Speak for yourself,' muttered Blaise darkly from her other side, shoving his books back into his bag. 'I couldn't even get the spell right.'

A ghost of a smile flashed across Daphne's face – one of the only time she allowed herself to let her guard down in public. As it was, there was no one left in the classroom; the rest of the Slytherins, led by Crabbe and Goyle, had thundered out of the room for lunch, while the Ravenclaws had also left, albeit with a little more grace and little less footfall noise.

'You're doing it wrong, Blaise,' she said, pulling out her wand. 'Look – you're supposed to wave it in an arc, and then jab it –' she demonstrated the movement for the spell as Blaise watched. 'You can't do the jab until you've finished the full wave properly.'

Blaise suddenly gave a mischievous grin, his eyes twinkling with undisguised glee. Daphne pinpointed the reason for his reaction almost at once, and groaned.

'How on earth is that… _dirty_ , Blaise?'

'Easy,' he replied, still grinning. 'It's just –'

Both Tracey and Daphne clamped their hands over their ears, unwilling to listen to Blaise's explanation. The boy in question sniggered as the two girls glared at him.

'That was a rhetoric question!' said Daphne, removing her hands from her ears for the sole reason that she needed to pack her things.

'Which still deserved a proper answer,' Blaise responded cheekily; Tracey, who had finished packing, swatted him on the arm.

They had left the classroom and were halfway up the Transfiguration corridor when Daphne suddenly stopped. 'Bugger,' she said, causing both Tracey and Blaise to look at her in surprise. Their blonde friend was a lot of things, but a person who cursed regularly, she was not. The slip in her usual demeanour meant that something had gone quite wrong, and it was serious.

'I forgot my diary in the classroom,' she said, immediately turning back.

Tracey and Blaise looked at each other in mock exasperation. If there was one thing Daphne was fonder of than her own wand, it was her diary. In a deviation from the traditional upbringing of Pureblood girls, Daphne's mother had gifted both her and her sister Astoria with a diary on their respective sixth birthdays, and on every birthday after that. Isabella Greengrass had had her own when she was a little girl, and had thought to inculcate the habit of writing in it, in her daughters as well.

It had worked – with Daphne at least: the diary had become an almost constant companion of hers, carrying it around wherever she went – classes, parties, or even vacations. And every night, before heading to bed, she could be seen writing in her diary; that period of time had been, quite appropriately, termed by Blaise as Daphne's Diary Time – or DDT, for short. It was a short window of fifteen to twenty minutes, where for Daphne, nothing else existed in the world, apart from her and her diary. No one was to disturb her during that time, as Pansy had unfortunately discovered two years ago.

'Do you want us to wait up?' called Tracey after her retreating back. Daphne shook her head, her long blonde hair glinting in the sunlight.

The sound of retreating footsteps echoed across the corridor as Daphne hurried back into the Transfiguration classroom. Quickly dashing to the desk she'd been sitting at during the lesson, she pulled the diary from out underneath it, breathing a quiet sigh of relief that it was still there, while simultaneously cursing herself for being so careless. The diary – or at least the concept of it – had become such an integral part of her, she could not imagine what she would do without it.

Her stomach gave a rather noticeable rumble as she exited the classroom, signalling its desire to be filled with food. Her hunger won out along with practicality, over her usual desire to keep the diary safe and private during school hours; she decided to put it inside her bag while on her way to the Great Hall.

 _Big mistake._

So intent was she on stowing the diary away inside her bag, while also hurrying quickly to the Great Hall, that she did not notice the open tapestry at the entrance of the corridor. Nor did she notice the boy standing right next to it, who turned away from the space behind the tapestry, and into her path, just when she was right in front of him.

Which was when her day went from unremarkable, to downright bizarre.

'What the –'

'OUCH!'

The collision would have been funny – almost hilarious – had she not been a part of it. As it was, Daphne fell to the ground, one hand stuck in her bag where she had just put her diary in, while her other hand grabbed the only thing within reach – the side of the boy's robes. This caused her to pull him down along with him, which did happen – his shoulder slammed against her collar-bone, making her cry out in pain; another sharp noise rang out, followed by a grunt and a groan from the boy – it seemed as though his knee had hit the ground rather painfully too. A series of thuds rang out at the same time; the contents of her open bag had spilled out and scattered all over the floor in the immediate vicinity.

Daphne groaned; her collar-bone was throbbing…and so was her head, she realized a moment later – she had landed rather painfully on her back, and her head had impacted against the stone floor rather sharply too…

'Ow…'

She tried pushing herself up, but the weight above her was too much to force off. As she did so, however, her elbow – which she'd used to push herself – slipped on the surface; her legs automatically flailed – and accidentally caught the boy on the shin; a rush of air blew past her ear as the boy hissed in obvious pain.

Amidst this entire drama, Daphne became suddenly aware of another noise from above them – it sounded like…laughter?

 _I know that voice._

Still fighting the pain assaulting the back of her head, Daphne shifted slightly, allowing her to see the figure doubled-up with laughter. Even from this angle, there was no mistaking that person.

'Warrington?'

The figure looked up, revealing the grinning face of the champion from Slytherin House. 'Greengrass,' he managed to get out between intermittent chuckles. He looked her over, sprawled on the ground, with the boy still above her. 'You look quite comfortable?'

Daphne glared at him, with as much irritation as she could muster. The boy on top of her seemed to have come to his senses, and with a grunt, rolled off of her to the side, curled up and clutching his shin where she had inadvertently kicked him. And as he did so, Daphne caught sight of the messy jet-black hair, slightly pale skin, and those round-rimmed glasses.

There was no mistaking this person either.

' _Potter?'_

The boy groaned again – clearly the pain was much more than he could handle. But all of a sudden, his hands let go of his shin and reached up to his forehead – his scar, to be more precise; and then he let out a low moan of obvious pain – clutching his forehead more tightly, he rolled over, as though trying to get rid of it…

With horrible fascination, Daphne stared as Potter grabbed at his forehead – it looked like he wanted to get his scar out – and then, he straightened out, stiff as a ramrod, and let out a yell – a yell that spoke of pain, anguish, hurt, and desperation…behind her, Daphne spotted Warrington looking on, just as horror-stricken as she was…

Potter's back arched, curving upwards as though he were performing a ridiculously complicated exercise, and then, like a taut rubber band being let loose and snapping back into place, he fell back down, hands still on his forehead, but no longer moaning…indeed, there was no sound coming from him at all…

A powerful wave of fear swept through Daphne as she watched Potter collapse onto the floor like a lifeless rag doll – what on earth had happened to him? Did he have a fit? A seizure? Wide-eyed, and resolutely ignoring the pain in her collar-bone and her head, Daphne looked back at Warrington, apparently still in shock at what he had just witnessed…

'Warrington,' she said weakly, the pain overwhelming her for a second; but it was enough. In a second, Warrington side-stepped her prone figure and bent over Potter; but shaking him elicited no response.

'Is he dead?' asked Daphne, managing to sit up, her hand gingerly rubbing the back of the head, checking to see if there was any swelling; thankfully, there was none. She watched confusedly as Warrington placed his two fingers on Potter's left wrist, just below his palm. A moment later, Warrington's shoulders slumped…but there was a relieved sigh that accompanied it.

'He's alive,' he breathed out. He looked over Potter once more, just to make sure he didn't have any other injuries, before turning to her. 'Are you alright?'

'I'm fine,' she said, a little too acidly, recalling how Warrington had been laughing at her pain and predicament only five minutes ago. Stubbornness had always been a dominant streak inside of her – and it was not the tradition of 'seen but not heard' that applied to young pure-blood women that she was displaying here. She'd always looked to present a strong front to people – showing weakness would only allow others to take advantage and use her to their own benefit.

Warrington arched an eyebrow, but did not comment. He stood up, offering her hand to her. 'Can you walk?'

Daphne took his proffered hand, but as Warrington pulled her up, a wave of dizziness, head rush, and nausea assaulted her; weakly, she let go of his hand, and would have tumbled back down if not for his quick reflexes.

'Easy there, Greengrass,' he said softly, holding her back and gently lowering back onto the floor. Once done, he straightened up once more, surveying the scene with a furrowed brow. They were, in any case, to the side of the top of the staircase, and would be an obstruction only to those who had to access the Transfiguration corridor. Even if students did have Transfiguration after lunch, most of them would return to their common rooms first to pick up their books and bags, leaving them with plenty of time to find a way to get out of there.

Warrington seemed to be thinking along similar lines too, for he looked around and nodded. 'I'm going to get Madam Pomfrey – I can't carry Potter on my own, and I'm not leaving him alone either. D'you think you'll be alright here?'

Daphne looked at him, surprised by his last statement; since when did Warrington become protective of the Gryffindor? A sharp throb to the back of her caused her to wince; deciding that now was not the time to wonder about such things, she nodded mutely in response to her House-mate's question.

'Good,' he said, and turned to leave. As an afterthought, however, he turned back, and with a flick of his wand, moved all of Daphne's scattered items and her bag to one side, right next to where she was seated with her back against the wall. 'Just so that nothing goes missing, and no one trips on them,' he added; then, with a quick turn, he disappeared toward the marble staircase.

Daphne let out a shaky breath that she did not know she'd been holding, and slumped against the wall. The pain in her collar-bone had receded somewhat, but it seemed as though it had been transferred to her head, if the increased throbbing was anything to go by. Her eyes shut of their own accord, as she quite futilely tried to control her rapid, shallow breathing…slowly, it evened out, and she cracked an eye open, looking over at Potter's prone form in front of her, wondering…

What on earth had caused Potter to react the way he had done? Was it their initial collision – the impact of his shoulder with her collar-bone? Or was it her accidental kick to his shin? Daphne dismissed both possibilities almost immediately; Potter had apparently survived worse than this, if rumours were to be believed: Basilisks, Dementors…for Merlin's sake, he'd survived a fifty-foot drop from his broomstick in a Quidditch match against Hufflepuff last year.

If it wasn't a physical injury…it had to be his scar.

An old memory resurfaced from her sub-conscious mind – one where she was an eleven-year-old girl, just sorted into Slytherin House by the Sorting Hat, and introducing herself to her new friends and House-mates. The conversation at the Slytherin table had somehow veered off to the astounding fact that Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, was in the same year as them, and had been sorted into Gryffindor House. Out of sheer curiosity, Daphne had looked to the Gryffindor table across the Great Hall to catch a glimpse of the famous Harry Potter – when out of the blue, he had clapped his hands to his forehead, as though it had pained him; then, he immediately turned to speak to a lanky red-head with a Prefect badge pinned to his robes, indicating someone at the staff table – going by the angle, it was possibly Professor Snape.

 _This was not the first time._

But what did it mean? Was Potter prone to random aches and pains on his scar? Or was it like a warning sign – of something more sinister? The lightning bolt scar of Harry Potter was the reason he was famous – a relic from his survival of the Killing Curse. Was it perhaps more than just a souvenir? It was definitely no ordinary curse scar – most of them usually faded away in time, but his seemed to be ever-present: a constant reminder of his past and an indicator of his fame…

Multiple footsteps from the marble staircase forced Daphne to abandon her thoughts; a moment later, Madam Pomfrey appeared, followed by Warrington.

'Oh dear,' she said, taking a look at Potter's still unmoving figure, save for the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. She waved her wand over him in a complex manner, and nodded. 'He's out cold, is all. He needs some rest. I can take him from here –' and indeed, she did do so, conjuring up a stretcher that floated in mid-air and levitating Potter into it. 'Now, what about you, Miss Greengrass? Mr Warrington wasn't quite clear about your injuries –'

'I'm fine,' repeated Daphne, her stubborn nature rearing its head once more.

Warrington scoffed at that almost at once. 'She isn't. I think her head hurts, she can barely stand –'

Madam Pomfrey didn't let him finish; she immediately strode over to Daphne and repeated the complex wand movement. 'Yes – swelling at the back of the head, bruises on her back, elbows – major bruising on the collar-bone…right, you're coming with me as well.' And without allowing for any protests, she levitated Daphne into another conjured stretcher, before handing her a small bottle of some purple potion.

'Drink it,' said Madam Pomfrey, sternly but not unkindly. 'It's a Headache Reliever – it'll keep the pain at bay until I treat that swelling of yours.'

Not wanting to tick off the strict nurse, Daphne obediently swallowed the contents of the bottle: it was thick and gooey, and tasted quite bitter, but the pain in her head immediately subsided, reducing to a very dull and low throb. She nodded her thanks as she handed the bottle back.

In silence, the four of them made their way to the hospital wing of Hogwarts; thankfully, it was located quite near to the Transfiguration corridor, and they did not pass any students on the way. Once inside, Madam Pomfrey – with Warrington's help – moved Potter and Daphne to separate beds.

'You may leave, Mr Warrington,' said Madam Pomfrey briskly; from her position in the infirmary, Daphne could see the matron moving around, presumably collecting the necessary potions for her, while Warrington stood off to the side. 'As I said, Mr Potter needs some rest, and so will Miss Greengrass.'

If Warrington had responded, Daphne did not hear it; in any case, she heard a pair of heavy footsteps retreating from the hospital wing, and knew that he had left. She let out a shaky breath, and let her head sink deeper into the pillows of her bed, trying to relax.

A few minutes later, Madam Pomfrey bustled over to her bed, carrying a tray with three more potion bottles. 'Drink these, Miss Greengrass,' she said, explaining as she drank that these were potions for the swelling on her head, the bruises on her back, elbows and collar-bone, and one for avoiding a concussion. 'You'll need to stay here for the night,' she informed Daphne as she finished swallowing the last potion. 'I'd like to keep you under observation, just in case there aren't any more symptoms of anything severe.'

Daphne grimaced at her words, but grudgingly accepted that the matron was right: despite having magical methods of Healing, head injuries were still the most susceptible to relapses and could trigger other ailments or issues if not treated properly – and Daphne had no intention of revisiting the hospital wing. An extra night at the infirmary would be better than returning once again for more treatment.

A soft groan from the other occupied bed caused Madam Pomfrey to jump up and hurry over. 'Mr Potter,' Daphne heard her say in a kind voice – not something she had ever heard from the strict nurse, 'why is it that you make it a point to visit me at least once a month?'

'I missed you too, Madam Pomfrey,' said Potter in a slightly hoarse voice, and even from here, Daphne could tell that he was grinning cheekily at the matron, who was chuckling at the boy. Daphne had not known that Potter could get this sarcastic – although, his witty comeback to Draco's badges should have been a good enough indication.

'How are you feeling?'

'Like someone tried to drill a hole in my head,' he said, the pain now evident in his voice.

 _Drill a hole? What's that supposed to mean?_

'Right,' replied Madam Pomfrey, clearly not amused, but she didn't press the issue. 'Here, drink this – it should help with the pain.'

Lying down on her bed as she was, Daphne could not see what Potter was doing; presumably, he had taken the medicine that the nurse had offered, since, a few moments later, he said, 'Thanks, Madam Pomfrey.'

'Now lie down for some time,' she commanded, her tone suddenly business-like and professional. 'Are you hurt anywhere else?'

'Yeah,' said Potter. 'I think – my shoulder, and my left shin.'

'Hmm.' There was a small pause. 'Yes, there is some amount of bruising…here, drink this one too.' A sound of tinkling glass, and then silence. 'Now, just rest for some time, then you can go down for lunch.'

'Okay,' he said. Suddenly, as though he had just remembered something, he said, 'Where's Warrington?'

'I asked him to leave, he was of no use by just standing here,' said Madam Pomfrey. 'He'd helped enough with getting you both to the hospital wing.'

'Both?' asked Potter confusedly, as though he did not remember the collision he'd had with Daphne.

'Yes, you and Miss Greengrass.'

'Oh.' There was another pause. 'How is she?'

Daphne raised her eyebrows in surprise. She and Potter barely knew each other – scratch that, they didn't know each other at all, except until the unfortunate collision they'd just had an hour back…and yet, he was asking about her well-being? She had never been in such a situation before – not that she was looking forward to another one any time soon – but she had never encountered a scenario where total strangers had asked after her health. In fact, even people who knew her well only asked out of formality and social requirement, rather than actual concern.

For some reason, she felt oddly touched by Potter's apparent concern.

'She will be fine,' said Madam Pomfrey. 'She'll need to stay the night, however, just in case.'

'That's a pity,' said Potter, and Daphne could hear the sarcasm once more in his voice, as though he was teasing Madam Pomfrey. She wondered how he could possibly get away with doing so, given how strict the matron usually was, but to her astonishment, Madam Pomfrey only chuckled.

'You should know, of all people, Mr Potter,' replied Madam Pomfrey. 'Now lie down for another half hour, and then you can leave.'

She bustled off from Potter's bed without waiting for a reply, and the infirmary fell silent once more. A gentle, chilly breeze wafted in from the high windows that had been left open above their beds, cooling the hospital wing quite effectively.

Daphne half expected Potter to say something to her, but he was remaining quite quiet – as though he had drifted off to sleep. The silence around the infirmary felt odd for her – and she desperately wanted to break it, but didn't know how to do so, or what to say to Potter.

Thankfully, a knock on the main doors dispelled the necessity for her to do so; she turned her head just in time to see the doors open, and her three friends walk in.

'Daphne!' cried Tracey, a little too loudly, causing Madam Pomfrey to poke her head out of her office and glare at her. Tracey gave an apologetic shrug, then turned to look at Daphne.

'What happened? Warrington said something about an accident, and your head –'

'Yeah,' said Daphne a little gingerly; although the potions were taking effect, her head still felt sore and weak. 'Sit down, I'll tell you what happened.'

Tracey and Blaise pulled up chairs and sat next to her bed. For good measure, Blaise also pulled across the blinds that separated her bed from the rest of the infirmary, affording them a good deal of privacy as long as they kept their voices down.

Daphne quickly told them what had happened from the time she'd returned to the Transfiguration classroom to retrieve her diary, till her present state of being a patient under the care of Madam Pomfrey at the hospital wing. Both Tracey and Blaise had sniggered when she told them about the collision with Harry Potter, no less, but their faces immediately turned serious when she described Potter's…seizure, and him clutching at his scar.

'What do you think happened?' she finally asked her two friends.

Both of them shrugged. 'I have no idea,' said Blaise. 'You're right, it's not an ordinary curse scar, but I don't know what it could be doing to him.'

'Maybe it's like you said,' suggested Tracey. 'Maybe it's a warning sign – like something is about to happen.'

'But for what? And who gives that warning to him?'

'Maybe it's on instinct? I dunno – I've never heard of scars acting like warning signs before.'

Another knock on the door caused them to cease their conversation; slowly, Blaise opened the blinds to just a crack, and they caught a glimpse of Granger and Weasley hurrying into the hospital wing. Automatically, they fell silent, listening to the conversation taking place with the other patient.

'Harry!' That was Granger.

'Last time I checked, yeah,' came the response.

There was a small sound, as though someone had hit someone – followed by an 'Ow!', presumably from Potter. Blaise sniggered.

'What happened?'

'Wait – how did you know I was here?'

Weasley replied, and there was a distinct sheepish tone to his voice. 'The map,' he said. 'You didn't turn up for lunch, so I checked the map to see where you were.'

'Oh,' said Potter. 'Good thinking.'

'Map?' mimed Blaise, but they were as clueless as he was.

'What happened?' repeated Granger.

'Well…' and they heard Potter launch into a re-telling of his day – something about a wand-weighing ceremony, exiting a secret passage near the Transfiguration corridor along with Warrington, and colliding with Daphne Greengrass by accident.

'That wasn't very nice, Harry,' said Granger in a slightly reprimanding tone, as Weasley snorted with laughter. 'You could have hurt her quite badly.'

'It was an accident, Hermione,' protested Potter. 'I didn't see her coming, and she didn't see me either.'

'Who cares, anyway?' asked Weasley. 'I'm just surprised you showed the short-cut to that _Warrington_.' The name of the Slytherin champion rolled off the red-head's tongue as though it was something rather unpleasant.

Daphne, Blaise, and Tracey widened their eyes in surprise as they heard Potter let out what could only be termed as an exasperated sigh. 'He's not evil, Ron. He's quite a nice bloke, actually –'

'Speak for yourself,' muttered Weasley, but he was clearly audible to everyone.

'Ron, you don't know him, so you can't judge him,' said Potter, and it was evident that he was repeating a dialogue he'd said a number of times in the past. 'I mean, look at what happened with Scabbers and Padfoot.'

They heard Weasley grumble about it, but it seemed as though Potter was slowly getting to him. Tracey, meanwhile, mouthed to her and Blaise, 'Scabbers and Padfoot?'

Both of them shrugged in response.

'Never mind that,' said Granger impatiently. 'That can't be the reason you're here, Harry. What happened after that?'

And immediately, Daphne knew that Potter's next words would provide an answer to the questions she, Tracey, and Blaise had just raised regarding his scar.

'My scar hurt again,' said Potter, suddenly quite quietly.

Daphne heard Granger gasp in shock, and Weasley let out a shaky breath. 'What was it this time?' he asked, and it was surprising to hear Weasley speaking so softly and concernedly.

'He was…angry,' said Potter slowly, like he was trying to find the right words to describe…whatever it was. 'He was really angry at Wormtail…'

'Why?' asked Granger.

'I dunno,' said Potter. 'It was quite intense though…he was torturing him.'

Silence fell over the infirmary once more, as each of the listeners processed whatever Potter had just said.

'Torture?' mouthed Tracey, suddenly pale and afraid.

'But it doesn't make sense,' said Weasley. 'Why would he torture Wormtail for no reason?'

'I dunno,' said Potter once again, and they fell silent once more.

Granger spoke up a few minutes later. 'When did Madam Pomfrey say you could leave?'

'In another ten minutes. What do we have next?'

'Divination,' said Weasley, and Potter groaned audibly. Daphne could not help it – she giggled silently at Potter's reaction: Divination was a horrible and boring subject to take up, second only to History of Magic.

'It's going to stifling hot up there,' said Potter with a sigh. 'And I'm starving too.'

'Oh!' exclaimed Granger a little loudly, followed by the sound of something being moved about. 'We figured you hadn't eaten anything, so we brought you this.'

'Thanks Hermione,' said Potter gratefully, and the sounds of him chewing on something reached Daphne's ears, along with the wonderful aroma of food. She turned to look at her friends questioningly, who were wearing sheepish expressions.

'We were worried about you – we didn't think of bringing anything,' whispered Tracey apologetically. Daphne glared at her.

A few minutes later, the chewing noises stopped.

'Did you find anything about the task?' asked Potter.

 _Task? What task?_

'No,' said Granger sadly. 'There haven't been any consistent patterns to the tasks that they organize.'

'Hermione feels let down by the library,' said Weasley almost teasingly.

'Well, I am!' said Granger indignantly. 'There's nothing on this, or on house-elves –'

'Oh, no,' interrupted Weasley almost immediately, 'no, no, don't bring Spew into this.'

'It's not "spew",' retorted Granger, 'it's S.P.E.W.! And I'm not bringing that into anything – you know I'm right about it.'

'Not here, Ron,' said Potter, and they fell silent, with Potter presumably staving off an argument between Granger and Weasley.

'I'm ready to go,' he announced, and through the shadows from behind the blinds, Daphne could make out Potter standing up and stretching languidly, before heading out of the hospital wing, Granger and Weasley in tow.

It was only once they heard the doors to the hospital wing close that Daphne, Tracey, and Blaise resumed their conversation.

'Who's him?' asked Tracey immediately.

'Who?'

'Him,' said Tracey, waving her hand in the direction of Potter's now unoccupied bed. 'The "him" they were talking about – the one who was torturing…Wormtail.' She shuddered as she said the word 'torture'.

Daphne and Blaise shook their heads. 'No idea,' said the dark-skinned boy. 'Never heard of that name, either. "Wormtail"…' He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

'Sounds like a nickname,' offered Daphne.

'Must be,' said Tracey. 'No parent in the right mind would name their child "Wormtail". That's just cruel.'

Daphne chuckled at that, and then suddenly let out a huge yawn. Just then, as if on cue, the bell rang throughout the castle, signalling the end of lunch.

'We've got Charms next, Blaise,' said Tracey, jumping out of her seat and pulling the blinds open. 'We'll come back in the evening, Daphne – you need your rest anyway.'

Daphne nodded, her eyelids feeling heavy, and already half-way closed. She felt Blaise squeeze her shoulder comfortingly, heard Tracey say, 'C'mon, Blaise', but was asleep even before her friends had left the hospital wing.


	5. Things Are Never Simple

**The Other Champion**

 **Chapter 4: Things Are Never Simple**

* * *

 **Author's Note: Extremely sorry for the super-long delay – I've been going through a rough patch for the last three months (a culmination of issues over the last one and half years), so it's been a little difficult for me to write. I'm trying to get better though.**

 **Anyway, this is my way of saying thank you to all those who have reviewed, favourited and followed my story – it means a lot to know that people like what I'm writing. Hopefully this chapter will be good enough.**

 **Also, to all those celebrating – Eid Mubarak in advance!**

 **P.S. Apologies for the rubbish chapter name. If you guys have any ideas, feel free to let me know in your reviews.**

 **P.P.S. Also, apologies for any mistakes in the chapter. My usual beta-reader, Dorothea Greengrass, is busy, and I did not want to push her too much for this - but I wanted to put this chapter up before I get even busier in life. Sorry, Dorothea!**

* * *

 **Disclaimer: Recognizable portions in this chapter have been taken from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, by J.K. Rowling. I neither own nor intend to make any profit from the use of Harry Potter and the associated characters of the series, in my story.**

* * *

 _ **Previously on "The Other Champion"…**_

' _Who's him?' asked Tracey immediately._

' _Who?'_

' _Him,' said Tracey, waving her hand in the direction of Potter's now unoccupied bed. 'The "him" they were talking about – the one who was torturing…Wormtail.' She shuddered as she said the word 'torture'._

 _Daphne and Blaise shook their heads. 'No idea,' said the dark-skinned boy. 'Never heard of that name, either. "Wormtail"…' He rubbed his chin thoughtfully._

' _Sounds like a nickname,' offered Daphne._

' _Must be,' said Tracey. 'No parent in the right mind would name their child "Wormtail". That's just cruel.'_

 _Daphne chuckled at that, and then suddenly let out a huge yawn. Just then, as if on cue, the bell rang throughout the castle, signalling the end of lunch._

' _We've got Charms next, Blaise,' said Tracey, jumping out of her seat and pulling the blinds open. 'We'll come back in the evening, Daphne – you need your rest anyway.'_

 _Daphne nodded, her eyelids feeling heavy, and already half-way closed. She felt Blaise squeeze her shoulder comfortingly, heard Tracey say, 'C'mon, Blaise', but was asleep even before her friends had left the hospital wing._

* * *

Just as Harry had predicted, the Divination classroom was boiling, even with the wintry chill that was seeping into the hallways of Hogwarts castle. They spent a terribly dull and boring one and a half hours at the mercy of Professor Trelawney, who, according to Seamus, tallied up a record fifteen different reasons for Harry's early and gruesome death, while desperately trying to concentrate in the sweltering heat.

'I wonder why she isn't surprised that you're still alive, Harry,' said Dean as they made their way down the silvery ladder, and set off for their last lesson of the day – Potions in the dungeons.

'She's probably reasoned that "Fate" is playing games with her,' said Neville, and the rest of the boys sniggered.

'I'm fine with it, as long as she keeps losing,' quipped Harry. Seamus and Dean guffawed loudly, causing Fay Dunbar, Parvati and Lavender to stare at them in surprise.

They were joined on the fourth floor staircase by Hermione and Christine Maxwell, who had completed their Arithmancy class. Christine immediately joined the other Gryffindor fourth-year girls, whose conversation had descended into regular gossip about the eligible, good-looking boys in Hogwarts. Hermione shook her head slightly, and joined Harry and Ron as they descended the stone steps onto the third floor.

It was as they approached the top of the marble staircase, near the entrance to the Transfiguration corridor, that Harry saw it: an innocent, black book, with a fine green thread around its rim and spine, had been lodged in a small recess in the wall right next to a tapestry. Harry would not have paid it any mind, if it were not for the fact that behind the tapestry was the shortcut he and Warrington had used earlier today to return from the wand-weighing ceremony.

The same place where he had collided with Daphne Greengrass.

He distinctly remembered that he had not misplaced any of his books – his bag had been closed ever since he had left the library along with Colin earlier that morning. In any case, he was sure that he did not own any book like that – from his point of view, it looked quite like a diary. Harry was also quite certain that Warrington had not been carrying anything, either.

The only reasonable conclusion was that it belonged to Greengrass.

The next question was what he was going to do with it.

He barely knew Greengrass – apart from sharing a couple of classes together over the last three and a half years at Hogwarts, they had no other common ground with each other. In fact, they had never even spoken to each other. Now that he thought about it, it had only been earlier that day – when Madam Pomfrey had told him who he had collided with – that he had finally put a face to the name.

 _And a rather pretty face too._

Harry frowned slightly as that thought crossed his mind. Where had that even come from? He had never paid much attention to the other Slytherins during his verbal spars with Malfoy and Parkinson; in fact, it was always the Slytherins who initiated the arguments – and Greengrass had never been a part of them. His only glimpse of her had been in that split second, just as they had fallen down after the collision – too short a window to have any sort of lasting impression.

Harry shook his head, and refocused his attention to the matter on hand. The book in the recess was definitely Greengrass' – ought he to give it to her?

 _It's only right that you do._

 _ **But I barely know her!**_

 _How does that matter? She's lost something, and now you've found it. You need to return it._

 _ **But –**_

 _Return it._

An inaudible sigh escaped his lips as the mini-argument with himself finally came to an end. He looked around him: the rest of the Gryffindors had already started to climb down the marble staircase – his thoughts had caused him to lag behind a few paces. His mind made up, Harry quickly darted over to the recess, pulled out the book, stuffed it into his bag, and rushed back to the staircase.

'Harry?' asked Ron, turning around. 'What kept you?'

'Shoelace,' said Harry, muttering the first thing that came to his mind. For some reason, he was not too keen on sharing the discovery of the diary with anyone just yet – especially not in front of Dean, Seamus, Lavender and Parvati.

Potions that afternoon was painfully devastating. Snape had begun targeting Harry for even the slightest of mistakes made in the brewing process ever since Harry's name had come out of the Goblet after Warrington's. His experience with the Dursley's usually helped, however – he was able to redirect his concentration onto his brew while tuning out the greasy-haired Professor's snide remarks. He had started to understand why Hermione had been whispering 'ignore it, ignore it' to him all these years: rising to the bait was what Snape wanted, and would never help him in any manner.

Unfortunately, all of that sound logic and advice went down the drain that afternoon, as Harry became distracted with another seemingly important question.

How was he going to give the diary back to Daphne Greengrass?

He had half expected her to be present during Potions, but when Davies and Zabini entered the classroom without her in tow, he immediately remembered Madam Pomfrey telling him that she had to stay the night in the hospital wing. The sight of her two constant companions and friends threw up the option of handing over the diary to them, but it was risky: Snape never permitted them to talk during his lesson, and the other Slytherins would have cursed him to within an inch of his life before he could have even uttered a 'Hello' to Zabini.

So no, giving it to her friends was ruled out. In any case, he was not sure if Greengrass would have appreciated him handing over a rather personal item of hers to her friends, despite them being a close-knit trio. Serving as a repository for some of the owner's darkest secrets, a diary was not usually shared with other people – unless, of course, one was as twisted as Tom Riddle.

That was yet another reason why Harry had been a bit hesitant to handle the diary in the first place: the black cover had stirred up memories of Tom Riddle's diary, and the havoc it had wrought upon the entire school through the mere action of writing in it. Harry had, admittedly, no idea of the Greengrass' leanings during Voldemort's reign, but he was not about to judge her simply because she was in Slytherin House. Warrington was, at least until now, a prime example of why all Slytherins weren't to be considered as evil.

In any case, he had picked it up, so it was now his duty to give it back to its rightful owner. He couldn't give it to her friends, so the only option was to hand it over to her directly. And that meant going to the hospital wing, before she was let out by Madam Pomfrey tomorrow. Without anyone else knowing about it.

So intent had he been in mentally answering that all-important question, that he realised, a little too late, that he had completely missed out on adding two crucial ingredients for his potion. With barely ten minutes left for the lesson to end, he gave it up as a lost cause, instead choosing to complete the rest of the steps written out on the blackboard, and hand it in for evaluation. Harry chose not to bother too much about it – the worst that Snape could do was give him a zero, or properly hand him detention – although he had never heard of detention being given for performing badly in class. He was, in any case, exempt from the end-of-year examinations; that, coupled with his least favourite Professor and dreaded subject, did not induce much motivation within him to perform well.

He had more pressing things to worry about, anyway.

Like how he was going to talk to Sirius within the castle itself.

Like how he had to compete against three fully qualified and of-age wizards and witches in a dangerous and potentially lethal task.

And like how he was to sneak into the hospital wing and hand over a diary to Daphne Greengrass, without being caught or seen by anyone.

* * *

Funnily enough, it turned out to be much easier than he had anticipated.

Harry had ultimately decided on heading to the hospital wing late in the night, after the last few stragglers would have returned to their common rooms, leaving the corridors vacant save for the patrolling ghosts, professors and prefects. He was used to sneaking around the castle at the late hour: it gave him a lot more room for him to move around without bumping into something or someone. There was also the added advantage that no one would be awake to miss him – heading off to some other part of the castle during the day without Ron or Hermione in tow would have raised a lot of questions.

Getting out of the Gryffindor common room had been straightforward, too. Sheer luck had taken care of the complications that were Ron and Hermione: both had decided to retire for the night rather earlier than usual. Under the pretext of finishing off some bits of his Herbology essay – which earned him a grimace from Ron and an approving smile from Hermione – Harry opted to stay behind in the common room. He waited until the last few stragglers inside the circular room had trudged off to their dormitories, before swinging his Invisibility Cloak over himself and moving towards the portrait hole.

A Friday night of revelry had caused the Fat Lady to sink into a rather deep slumber; he did not look back, but Harry heard only a slight snort as the portrait moved slowly back into place, along with the distinct chink of empty glass bottles.

The castle was, as he had predicted, empty; it gave off the impression of being larger than usual. The gentle rays from the half-waxed moon filtered in through the high windows that lined the corridors which he traversed, one hand tightly clutching the black diary, and the other, his precious Marauder's Map. Currently, it showed him a relatively free route from his position to the hospital wing; the usual harbinger of mischief, Peeves the poltergeist, was floating around in the sixth floor corridor on the other side of the castle, while Filch and his cat, Mrs Norris, were safely out of the way in their office.

The Entrance Hall gleamed a pale gold, with the combination of moonlight and torchlight suffusing throughout the cavernous room. Harry crossed the Hall and proceeded along another flight of stairs; a minute later, he was standing in front of the hospital wing doors, while he gave himself one last chance to abandon the entire plan and return to the comfort of his bed.

 _ **This is insane. She's going to kill me. Madam Pomfrey is going to kill me!**_

 _Stop being overdramatic. She'll appreciate the fact that you returned it to her._

 _ **She'll probably think I stole it from her!**_

 _Will you cut it out? You didn't steal it, and that's the truth. Now shut up and open that door._

Taking a deep breath, and squaring his shoulders – as though he was to enter the gladiatorial ring for a fight – Harry pushed opened the doors of the hospital wing.

The long room was dark, save for the light streaming in from outside. A single lit torch hung over the entrance to Madam Pomfrey's office, casting ominous shadows for a radius of two feet around it. The office itself was dark – a quick glance at the map told Harry that Madam Pomfrey was currently asleep in her living quarters, accessible only from her office and to the side.

Numerous beds lined the walls of the hospital wing, fitted out with crisp linen sheets and fluffy white pillows. The air had the distinct smell of medicinal potions and salves; Harry was quite familiar with it, having been admitted here more times than probably anyone else currently in school right now. He stepped forward into the room, allowing the large doors to swing noiselessly shut behind him while his eyes roved over the beds.

It was on the second sweep that he located an occupied bed – it was at the far end of the wing, and had the blinds drawn halfway, affording it only a bit of privacy. Harry could see the person in the bed tossing and turning; clearly, she seemed quite agitated about something.

Slowly and quietly, Harry approached the bed, careful not to draw any attention to himself, despite having the Cloak still wrapped around him. After what seemed like an age-long trek, he drew level with the bed; carefully, he took the last step forward, and properly looked upon Daphne Greengrass for the first time.

 _She's beautiful._

And even in her sleep, with her constant restless movements, he had to admit that his mind was right.

Her blonde hair had escaped from her band, and had fanned out on the pillow beneath her head; curls and strands of it were framing her round face, occasionally tickling her small nose and causing her to scrunch it up. Her forehead was creased in a frown – quite clearly the reason for her tossing around so frantically; the covers over her frame were wrinkled and oddly strewn about. Harry resisted the urge to look her over – he felt quite embarrassed about having stared at her while she was sleeping.

But for some unknown reason, despite the evident anxiety and trouble she was experiencing while asleep, he could not tear his eyes away from her visage. And as he watched, she began moaning – low, soft moans that seemed to echo in the empty hospital wing. He was half afraid that it would attract Madam Pomfrey's attention – the matron was generally a light sleeper – and that he would be caught. Instinctively, he took a step back, alerting him to the fact that he was still wearing his Cloak, and was quite invisible and undetectable to anyone else – save probably for Dumbledore himself.

With a sort of twisted, horrible fascination, Harry stood there, motionless, as Greengrass continued to moan and whine in a pitiful, pathetic manner, as though she were reliving a tortuous experience from her past. And to his horror, Harry noticed a couple of tear tracks running down her pale cheeks – she was crying. Was it from the exertion, or the experience? Harry did not know – but he was not going to remain as a silent spectator to this.

Years later, Harry would say that this was the moment that probably changed his entire life.

Boldly, embodying the qualities of a typical Gryffindor, Harry peeled off the Invisibility Cloak; the silvery material slipped from his hands and pooled onto the floor. Ignoring it, he stepped forward, and, with barely a moment's hesitation, placed his hand on Greengrass' shoulder.

The effect was not instantaneous, but it was not gradual either: the moans and whines were reduced to mere sniffles and tiny coughs, almost as though she were actually awake and being comforted by someone close to her. Slowly, ever so gently, Harry rubbed her shoulder in what he felt was a soothing manner, all the while making sure not to touch any part of her skin – he did not think it would be the best thing to do to a stranger.

It took a while, but Greengrass' breathing soon evened out to what Harry felt was acceptable and normal; the lines on her forehead smoothed out, revealing her calm and content face. With a small sigh of relief, Harry lifted his hand from her shoulder. He turned slightly, intent on placing the diary on her bedside table and leaving the hospital wing –

When a soft hand grabbed his wrist, its fingers holding it tightly.

Harry literally jumped – fortunately, the grip on his wrist was strong enough to ensure that he did not jerk around too violently. Eyes wide, and heart beating against his chest ferociously, he turned back, coming face-to-face with Daphne Greengrass.

She was definitely awake now.

She was smiling.

 _Wait, what?_

Harry stared at her, blinked furiously, and stared at her for some more time. This was definitely a dream, he told himself. There was no way this was real, it could not be real. Daphne Greengrass was not known to smile at strange boys – Harry had enough of the rumours to be aware of that fact.

And yet, here she was, giving him a tremulous, shaky smile as she gazed at him with sleepy eyes – which were, Harry dimly noted, a striking shade of sapphire.

It took him a good amount of time to react to Greengrass' hold on his wrist: he looked down at her hand, with her fingers still clenched around it, and then looked up at her, an eyebrow raised inquisitively.

'Thank you,' she whispered softly.

Harry had to hand it to her: even after experiencing what he was pretty sure was a nightmare, and having just woken up from it, she still had the presence of mind to whisper whatever she wanted to say to him.

It took him another ten seconds to realise that she had actually said something to him.

 _What is wrong with me?_

Harry frowned slightly in response, indicating his confusion at her expression of gratitude to him – he did not trust his voice to not whisper at the moment. Did she not know who he was? What had he done to deserve a thank you? Any other person would have got into quite a rage at what was clearly an invasion of privacy – sneaking into their hospital ward, watching them sleep, and rubbing their shoulder in a foolhardy attempt to provide some semblance of comfort.

The corner of Greengrass' mouth quirked slightly – she had evidently understood the dilemma running through his head. She nodded - he did not know why – and dropped her hand from his wrist.

Oddly, he felt an unusual sense of loss at her release of his hand; trying his best to mask it, he moved his arms back to his sides.

She looked up at him again. 'No one in school has ever done that for me before.'

 _Oh?_

Harry had wondered, for one wild moment, if she had been this agitated due to her diary being missing, but that seemed quite far-fetched right now, given her concise explanation: Greengrass suffered from nightmares, and while presumably, her parents would comfort her during the summer holidays, she had been forced to suffer alone while in school. Harry felt a sudden rush of sympathy towards her: reliving nightmares and horrible memories on your own was something he had had to do for quite a while – it was not a fun experience.

He controlled the unexpected urge to reach out to her once again, as he spoke to her for the first time in his life. 'Was it bad?'

Greengrass frowned a bit, as though contemplating whether or not to give him any details. If the rumours were to be believed, she was a very silent and introverted person, with hardly any other friends in Slytherin apart from Davies and Zabini. She was also known to be cold and aloof with any other strangers; this was a departure from her usual behaviour with unknown people in her life. It was only natural that she hesitate in telling him anything.

Besides, she was a Slytherin, and he a Gryffindor. Why would she say anything to him?

Expectedly, she merely shook her head; Harry felt it wise not to press any further. Instead, he settled for nodding in agreement.

'I suppose you've had your share of nightmares too,' she said softly.

Harry nodded again, and then frowned in confusion. How did she know about that?

Greengrass must have realised the reason for his bewildered look; she looked at him sheepishly and said, 'After we collided, you suddenly grabbed your scar and went all…different. I thought you were having a fit…'

Harry glanced away from her, a bit ashamed and embarrassed that she had seen that. His episodes with his scar were getting a bit more frequent than normal ever since the summer when he had had that dream about Voldemort and Wormtail, but he had tried to ignore them – especially in public. He did not want to provide any more ammunition to Malfoy to start spreading rumours or passing snide remarks in the corridors.

'I'm sorry,' said Greengrass quickly; Harry looked back at her now apprehensive face. 'I didn't mean to pry – I shouldn't have said that –'

'No, it's alright,' said Harry, cutting her off. Their eyes met, and for some inexplicable reason, he felt as though they had just had an entirely silent conversation, of him reassuring her that she had nothing to be sorry about.

Greengrass gave him another shaky smile, and then they lapsed into silence – one which was rather uncomfortable, for Harry at least. What could he say to a pretty Slytherin girl who he had comforted from her nightmares, who had thanked him for doing so, and whose diary he was still holding…

 _The diary!_

'Erm,' began Harry; she looked up at him curiously, the sight of which caused him to falter slightly. What on earth was wrong with him?

He cleared his throat and tried again.

'I – uh – I came to – erm – I actually came to give you this,' he managed to stammer out. He held out the diary at the end of it, while a sudden wave of anxiety and apprehension about her reaction thrashed over him.

Greengrass' eyebrows creased slightly, as though trying to figure out what he was holding out in the semi-dark hospital wing. A moment later, her eyes widened, and she quickly took the book from him; she looked over it intently, clearly seeing if there was any damage to it, and then cradled it closely to her, as if it were a long lost possession that she had finally found.

'Where did you get this?' she asked. Harry was a bit taken aback by the sudden sharpness in her voice – the diary had evidently woken her up. He did not blame her, however: he probably would have felt the same thing if the map or the Cloak had been missing and then returned to him.

'I found it near the place we – um – we collided,' said Harry; he gave himself a little bit of credit for the fact that, despite her suspicious gaze at him, he was still answering without any fear. 'It was lodged in a recess near that tapestry…I suppose it flew out of your bag at that time, and no one noticed it.'

Greengrass looked from him to the diary, and back at him once more. 'And you just…found it?'

 _Well, it's not like I went looking for it._

He bit back the retort that was rising to his lips, choosing instead to remain calm. 'By sheer accident and luck, I suppose. I was coming for Potions after Divination, and we had to pass that place to get to the dungeons.'

He fell silent, waiting for Greengrass to respond. He knew people were attached to their diaries, but he did not expect her to be this fond of it. Who loves their diary this much, anyway?

Greengrass looked at him again – and this time, it was the famous stare that had made her so well-known amongst the male population of Hogwarts: the cold, frigid glare that made most boys turn around and run from the area. It was usually a sign that Greengrass was not in a good mood, and was likely to do something terrible to you.

Fortunately for Harry, the lack of adequate illumination in the hospital wing in that moment significantly lessened the impact of her glare on him: he was just about able to make out her narrowed eyes, which accentuated the sapphire tint of her irises.

'Did you read it?'

There are certain questions in life that demand an instantaneous answer, whenever they are posed to any person – typically by a girl to her boyfriend, or by a wife to her husband. 'Do I look fat?' is one of the most famous examples of this, and so is 'Is she prettier than I am?' Most relationships are based on the almost reflex-like, immediate response of 'No!' by the recipient of the question, without a second thought. Some have an inherent knowledge of this; others, unfortunately, learn through multiple fights and subtle hints dropped by their better halves.

This was one such question, which should have typically necessitated a prompt and resounding 'No!' from Harry.

Unfortunately – whether it was due to the icy glare, or the late hour, or the absolute suddenness of the question – he took an extra second to reply.

'Of course not.'

Fortunately for him, Daphne Greengrass was not the typical girl.

Others would have become suspicious at once with such a response. A delayed reply usually meant that he was thinking about it: if he was, it meant that he must have read it, and it was taking him that extra second to say 'No!' in order to cover up his transgression.

Fortuitously, it seemed as though Greengrass was one of those who considered the opposite to be true: an immediate 'No!' meant that they were used to lying quite quickly through their teeth. Too late a response, and you were still lying about it – over-dramatizing it was always a dead giveaway. But a perfectly timed reply usually convinced her about the truth – whatever he said. And Harry's response fell into the last category of perfect timing; it was the truth in any case, but it did sound a lot more believable.

Evidently, it worked, for her eyes softened considerably enough such that Harry could no longer feel the effect of any glare she was even giving at that time. She nodded once while looking down at the book, and then once more after looking back at him.

'Okay,' she said quietly.

Once again, Harry said nothing, instead choosing to scuff his shoe against the floor of the hospital wing. He had finished what he had come for, and he was now desperate to get back to his dormitory and catch some sleep. Even though it was a Saturday, he needed the time to find out more about what the first task could possibly be.

'I'd better get going, then,' he said.

Greengrass started slightly; she tore her eyes from the book before looking up at him once more.

'Right, okay,' she said, and for the first time that night, her expression was unreadable.

Harry turned away from her to leave; as he picked up his Invisibility Cloak from the floor, he heard Greengrass let out a soft gasp.

'Is that a –' she started, staring wide-eyed at the Cloak in his hands. Harry looked between her and the Cloak, as he debated on telling her anything. His Cloak was a family heirloom – he had inherited it from his father – and was not public knowledge. He had not even confirmed its existence to Fred and George Weasley, yet he was contemplating revealing it to Greengrass?

 _She did tell you about her nightmares._

 _ **Yes, but this is different.**_

 _You know you want to._

'Yeah, it is,' he said with a nod, and watched amusedly as Greengrass' mouth dropped open in shock. Clearly she had never seen a real Invisibility Cloak before, judging by her astounded and awed reaction. Harry saw her look between him and the Cloak, even as he swung it around over himself, leaving his head bobbing in mid-air.

'You should get some sleep, Greengrass,' he said, snapping her back to the present. Still slightly wide-eyed, she looked at him and nodded. Her hands clutched at her diary a little tighter.

'Again, thank you,' she said, and Harry knew she genuinely meant it.

'You're welcome,' he replied; a moment's hesitation later, he said, 'Take care.'

She nodded again, and gave him a genuine, non-shaky smile. It was a startling contrast to the cold expression she had adopted not more than ten minutes ago; the effect was astounding. Her face seemed to have brightened up, while her sapphire eyes were…mesmerising.

 _Okay, you need to leave now._

Getting a hold of his confused emotions and thoughts, Harry managed to smile back without – in his opinion – looking creepy; then, drawing his Cloak over his head, he padded softly out of the hospital wing back to Gryffindor Tower.

 _Well, that went well._

 _ **Good thing she didn't ask about the map.**_

 _Forget that – I told you she wouldn't hex you for the diary._

 _ **She almost did! You saw her expression when she asked me if I'd read it.**_

 _Come off it, she was just acting up._

 _ **You call that acting up?**_

The argument within his head continued all the way until he got into his comfortable four-poster bed in the Gryffindor Tower dormitories; tired from the events of that day and night, he fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

He did wonder, though, what he would have seen if he had opened the diary.

* * *

Harry spent the next few days leading up to the first task as though in a daze, what with his homework, lessons, research in the library and worrying about Sirius all at one go. The first two had become surprisingly difficult: as the end of their first term approached, the professors kept them to the grindstone, insisting quite equivocally that the preparation was necessary for them to do well on their Ordinary Wizarding Levels, or O.W.L.s – the exams they were due to sit for at the end of their fifth year.

'It is crucial that all of you clearly understand this theory – it would allow you to perform your O.W.L. Charms with considerably more ease!' squeaked tiny Professor Flitwick, in the middle of a notoriously difficult Charms lesson.

While he had no trouble in keeping up with his homework, his nervousness over what he would encounter in the first task of the Tournament greatly affected his performances in his lessons. Barring Divination and History of Magic – where there was no real work done in the classroom anyway – his spell-work, brewing (for Potions), and gardening (for Herbology) was quite woeful. Indeed, even Neville ended up surpassing him in Charms – he, Harry, was the only one who was unable to perform the Summoning Charm properly, and was, consequently, the only student to be assigned extra homework.

Their research had not seen much progress either: Harry, Ron, and Hermione ended up spending long hours in the corner of the library, poring over books about magical tournament history, competitive tasks, and the like. The Triwizard Tournament, though instituted quite a long time ago, had very little written accounts to its name: most of its history, as Hermione conceded at last, was usually stored in the library of the Ministry of Magic.

'Even though Hogwarts would have hosted it before, the records would be kept with the British Wizarding Ministry,' she admitted in a defeated tone, as she shut a rather large and dusty volume. 'There's nothing about the tasks in any book here.'

With them having to finally concede defeat, the pressure on Harry began to mount – he had never felt this out of sorts or anxious ever before. The same question began to repeatedly pound in his mind: how was he, a mere fourteen-year-old boy, going to perform some unknown and difficult piece of magic in front of the entire school, while competing with three other qualified and experienced champions?

He had tried reassuring himself that he was not the only one to be competing, and the others would probably be nervous as well; if they were, however, they did not show it. Fleur Delacour was her usual breezy and haughty self, barely interacting with anyone in Hogwarts, and mingling with only her companions from Beauxbatons. The only glimpses Harry got of her were during meal-times, when the entire French school contingent would arrive, eat their fill at the Ravenclaw table, and leave.

Viktor Krum was probably used to such pressure – either that, or he hid it extremely well behind his surly visage. Apart from meal-times, Harry had seen him come almost on a daily basis to the Hogwarts library to read books; the Bulgarian would cast a grumpy glance over at the corner where they were doing their research, before settling himself behind a pile of books, most of which were quite mundane and irrelevant to the Tournament. Once or twice, Harry had spotted a few fan girls of his queuing up behind the shelves to get his autograph, all the while arguing over who would go first. Ron had considered getting an autograph himself, but his enthusiasm had been severely dampened at the sight of the gaggle of girls.

Warrington, perhaps, was the only champion who Harry could see was under a bit of stress. Whether that was due to the Tournament, or his N.E.W.T.s (Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests) the next year, or his ongoing – albeit reduced – ostracization by the members of Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff Houses, Harry did not know. The visage that the Slytherin had put up to everyone on the first of November was definitely suffering some chinks – and Harry could not blame him in the slightest. There was only so much that one could endure, before they finally cracked. It was a good thing that he at least had the support of a few friends in Slytherin House itself.

Speaking of Slytherin…

Harry had not had the opportunity to continue, or even start, a conversation with Daphne Greengrass ever since he had returned her diary to her. They only shared two classes together – Potions and Care of Magical Creatures – neither of which afforded the chance for Gryffindors and Slytherins to outwardly mingle with each other. They rarely passed by each other in the corridors too: the most prominent time was when they would enter and exit the Great Hall for meals; with the sheer crowd around them in those moments, getting two words in would have been a feat in itself.

It was not for the lack of trying, or any consolation, however: they had begun to exchange fleeting smiles with each other whenever they made eye contact during the day. It was a way of acknowledging the other's presence – Harry sometimes felt it was their own method of greeting each other. He did, however, make sure that no one else caught wind of what they were doing – and was sure that she was doing the same: their quick grins were usually when everyone else was looking at something else, or engaged in a discussion about something else.

He did not know why, or how, but Harry felt as though this – game, if one could call it that – that he was playing with Greengrass, was something that he had been missing for a long time. It seemed like this was filling a rather large and gaping hole in his life – as if this was something he should have been doing for ages now, and she was someone he should have been talking to much earlier. It was inexplicable, of course, but it was a good and satisfying feeling – the kind of sensation he usually experienced when flying on a broom.

With everything said and done, his interactions with Greengrass were probably one of the few bright spots in his life as the first task drew steadily nearer. That, and his conversation with Sirius on the morning of the twentieth of November.

Sirius' timing was precise, and could not have been at a better time for Harry. He, along with Ron and Hermione, had been initially surprised to see his godfather's head floating in the fire of Gryffindor Tower; his apprehension only increased when Sirius said he had broken in to a wizarding house to use their fireplace, just to 'fulfil his duties as godfather.' All of that vanished, however, with Harry's next words.

'Dragons, Sirius,' he said, an almost desperate and pleading tone in his voice. 'They've got dragons for us in the first task, and I'm a goner.'

Harry had found out about the dragons courtesy of a midnight stroll with Hagrid, who had invited him over while at Hogsmeade earlier on Saturday morning. Hagrid had also brought along Madame Maxime for the walk; clearly, he was trying to impress the Headmistress of Beauxbatons by showing her, and indirectly her champion, what the first task was going to be. With Harry running into Karkaroff a few moments later, only the Hogwarts champion, Warrington, remained in the unknown.

The dragons had looked magnificent, without a doubt: Harry could somewhat relate to Hagrid's fascination with the deadly creatures. But this was soon overridden by his worry for what he had to do, according to Charlie Weasley: get past the dragons to their nests. How was he going to do that, in front of the entire school?

Unlike Ron and Hermione, who had both looked at him with a mixture of shock and horror at his emphatic declaration – just minutes before Sirius had popped in – his godfather showed no signs of being concerned with the first task. His eyes had still not lost their deadened and haunted look – a souvenir from his twelve years in Azkaban – but his mind was back to its previous sharpness and quick thinking.

'We can deal with dragons later, Harry, there are more pressing things to talk about right now.'

'Like what?'

'Like who put your name in the Goblet of Fire.'

Harry had already explained his theory – about Voldemort being behind his selection – in his letter to Sirius. Of course, there was only so much that could be elaborated in a letter. And so, the three of them spent the next fifteen minutes listening to Sirius' thoughts on the entire situation, including his suspicion of Karkaroff – something which Hermione dismissed immediately.

'If what you're saying is true – that Karkaroff fears You-Know-Who,' she said, 'then it doesn't look like he would be willing to help him this time. You-Know-Who would have probably killed him on the spot if he did return.'

Her casual reference to Karkaroff being murdered by Voldemort caused Harry and Ron to raise their eyebrows in surprise – but it was true. The chances of Igor Karkaroff re-joining the Death Eaters were quite slim.

It was, however, unanimously agreed that Harry's selection was by Voldemort, and was done in order to have him killed. The when and where of the potential murder was still up in the air, leading to Harry speculate that it might well happen on Thursday, when he was going to be face-to-face with a live, fully-grown dragon.

'About that dragon,' said Sirius briskly, 'there's a simple way of handling it. You could try the Conjunctivitis Curse at its eyes –'

'Oh!' said Hermione, nodding her head fervently.

'– that's the least protected area of a dragon's body. But you'll need to make sure it doesn't get into a rage and burn everything else, including you.'

'And how am I supposed to do that?' asked Harry waspishly. The idea of angering or provoking a dragon did not appeal that much to him.

Sirius glared at him. 'I'm not sure what else would work, to be honest – a dragon's hide is almost impenetrable by magic. Short of shooting it with a black arrow, this might just be your best shot.'

Hermione frowned at him. 'You've read Tolkien?'

'Lily gave me his books for me to read. He was my favourite,' said Sirius with a grin. It was all too soon replaced with a rather serious expression, as he looked at Harry. 'I need to go, I can hear voices near the end of the driveway. Stay safe, and keep me posted. Okay?'

'Yeah, okay,' said Harry. He did not want Sirius to leave so soon – not when he really needed an adult to help him.

Sirius must have read his face; he grinned at Harry, and said, 'Don't worry about me, I'll be fine. And don't worry too much about yourself either – you'll be fine with these two around.'

Ron and Hermione smiled at Sirius, and Harry could not help but grin back.

'Let me know how it goes. See you.' And with another pop, he was gone.

* * *

Harry returned to lessons on Monday, feeling – if it were possible – even more disheartened than he had been before talking to Sirius. His godfather had provided a solution, yes; unfortunately, he had been unable to master it properly in time for the first task on Thursday. Despite Hermione's constant tips and suggestions on the wand movements and the incantation for it, Ron providing moral support, and a whole Sunday of practice, the Conjunctivitis Curse would just not work for him. Try as he might, he was either a good ten feet off target, or accurate but weak in the spell's intensity.

And so, racking their brains to come up with another workable solution by Thursday mid-day – Hermione had taken refuge in the library for answers again – they returned to their classes. The weather, too, seemed to be reflecting Harry's sombre and despondent mood: it was a dull grey, with occasional biting winds and, surprisingly that afternoon, an unseasonal burst of rain that sent them all scurrying for cover in the castle while they were on their way back from Care of Magical Creatures.

'What d'you reckon will happen to the Skrewts?' mused Dean as they finally reached the Entrance Hall, almost completely drenched from the downpour.

'Who cares?' said Seamus, wringing the end of his robes to release enough water to fill a trough. 'Blimey, that's a lot of water!'

'I do hope they're okay though,' said Hermione a little anxiously, as she tried peering out the windows of the Entrance Hall out into the grounds. It was no use, however; the sudden rain was too heavy, and had reduced the visibility to less than ten feet.

They had, in any case, arrived back in the castle just in time for their next lesson: the Slytherins, led by a sopping wet Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson, returned to their dungeon common room to freshen up for Charms with the Hufflepuffs, while the Gryffindors headed for Transfiguration with the Ravenclaws.

As was now customary between the two of them, Harry and Daphne Greengrass exchanged a quick smile as they left for their respective classes; so, it came as quite a surprise to him when she gave him a tiny wave, before disappearing down the stairs towards the dungeons.

 _ **What on earth…**_

 _Well, this is new._

He continued to stare at the point on the stairs after which she went out of sight, wondering where that had come from. He was finally brought back to reality when Hermione's wide-area Drying Charm, which she had performed on the Gryffindors, took effect on him.

'Alright there, Harry?' asked Ron as the red-headed came next to him. The rest of their classmates were now making sure that their books and other items were not water-logged, and were asking Hermione to help them get rid of the water if they were. Harry and Ron watched their bushy-haired best friend move around the others, occasionally waving her wand and muttering an incantation, or teaching them how to do it.

'She should be a Professor, that one,' said Ron suddenly.

'Huh – what?' said Harry, his thoughts still on Greengrass' wave. 'Oh, yeah. Yeah, she's good at teaching people.'

'Yeah, she is.'

Hermione soon came over to them. 'Are your things alright, Harry?'

'What – yeah, they're fine,' said Harry distractedly. Hermione raised an eyebrow at him, but said nothing.

Slowly, the group of Gryffindors made their way up to the Transfiguration corridor on the second floor. As they reached the landing and headed to the classroom, Harry caught sight of Warrington, Terence Higgs, and Adrian Pucey exiting from the tapestry near the landing – the same shortcut he'd shown the Slytherin champion not two weeks ago.

'Potter,' called Warrington. Harry, who had turned to proceed along the corridor, looked back curiously.

'Warrington,' he replied. The rest of his Gryffindor classmates – at least those who had heard his name being called, including Ron and Hermione – looked around to watch the exchange between the two Hogwarts representatives.

Warrington made his way to stand a few paces in front of Harry, while Higgs and Pucey hung back. 'I wanted to thank you for showing me this shortcut.' He waved his hand in the direction of the tapestry. 'Dead useful this is – I save around five minutes in walking down two additional flights of stairs just to get to the Entrance Hall.' He smirked at Harry. 'Got any more of these nifty staircases around?'

A casual passer-by would have been stunned at the level of camaraderie that Warrington and Harry were showing with each other. As it was, the watching Gryffindors were looking at each other with varying degrees of amazement: while they were aware of the civility between Harry and Warrington, they had not expected… _this_.

Their eyes got even wider when Harry returned the smirk with one of his own. 'That's for me to know, and you to find out, Warrington.'

Warrington chuckled. 'Fair enough. I'll take that as a challenge – one more shortcut before Christmas. What say?'

'You're on,' said Harry, and the two shook hands, while the crowd watched in utter bewilderment.

'Right then, I'd better be off,' said Warrington with a swift nod. 'I've got better things to do during my free period.'

Harry returned the nod, and was about to turn back to his friends when he suddenly remembered it.

The first task. Dragons.

'Warrington, wait.'

The Slytherin, who had joined his friends and had just placed his foot on the first step, swivelled around. His face was arranged into an expression of polite puzzlement.

'Could I have a word with you?'

Warrington's eyes narrowed, but to Harry's immense relief, he agreed. After a hurried whispered conversation with his two friends, Warrington turned and walked towards the other end of the second floor landing, where Harry had moved to stand by himself. In the distance, he could see Ron and Hermione looking at him worriedly; he grinned at them just as Warrington strode up to him once more.

'What's up, Potter?'

Harry looked up at him – Warrington was a good three inches taller than he was – and steeled himself for the bombshell he was about to drop on the Hogwarts champion.

'The first task is dragons, Warrington.'

Warrington stared at him.

'What?'

'Dragons,' said Harry hurriedly; it was as though the words were in a rush to tumble out of his mouth. 'They've got four – one for each of us – and we've got to get past them.'

It was slightly unnerving, looking into Warrington's unblinking dark eyes, waiting for his proper reaction to the terrifying prospect that awaited them on Thursday…

Slowly, Harry could see some of the panic he'd been feeling since that walk with Hagrid flickering in Warrington's eyes.

'You're sure?'

'Dead sure,' said Harry. 'I've seen them.'

'You've seen them?' The dark eyes were now slightly narrowed, and reflected suspicion at Harry's words. 'How?'

'Never mind that,' said Harry quickly. 'But I'm not the only one who knows,' he added, hoping that this would convince him. 'Fleur and Krum would know by now – Madame Maxime and Karkaroff saw the dragons, too.'

It was remarkable how Warrington was able to reign in his emotions – which were surely reaching panic levels by now – and still have a shred of doubt regarding what he had just heard. Harry supposed it was the Slytherin in him: they had to be constantly aware of whether something was genuine enough, and if it would serve their purpose. He wondered if another champion – Diggory, perhaps – would have reacted in the same manner; or if their roles had been reversed, whether he would have stayed sane enough to respond.

'Why are you telling me this?' asked Warrington.

Harry considered his question as a fair one – there was no forcefulness in it, or any indication of a threat. It was simple curiosity – he was sure he would have asked the same question too, if he had been informed of the dragons in this manner by a fellow competitor.

He squared his shoulders before replying to Warrington. 'It's fair, isn't it?' he said. 'All of us know now – we're on an even footing.' He paused for a moment. 'I wouldn't have wanted any of the others to face them unprepared,' he added.

Warrington was still looking at him in a slightly suspicious manner, when two distinct sounds echoed out in the landing: the bell, and the distinctive, familiar clunking noise. Harry turned around, and saw Mad-Eye Moody emerging from a nearby classroom.

'Come with me, Potter,' he growled. 'Warrington, off you go.'

Harry looked between Warrington and Moody with no small amount of apprehension – had he overheard their discussion? He was also a tad surprised to see Warrington eyeing Moody with some suspicion – what did the Slytherin know about Moody that he did not?

'Erm – Professor, I'm supposed to be in Transfiguration right now –'

'Never mind that, Potter, you can tell Professor McGonagall you were with me. In my office, please…'

He glanced back at Warrington, who still had not moved, before following Moody along the corridor and to a flight of stairs directly to the fourth floor, where his office was. As he trudged along in Moody's wake, he wondered which was worse: getting caught by Moody for cheating in the Tournament, or walking in late to Professor McGonagall's class.

 _Lesser of two evils, I suppose._

 _ **Only if Moody doesn't turn me into a ferret.**_

And as he followed Moody into his office, he supposed being turned into a ferret would not be so bad, if it could help him survive the first task.


	6. The First Task

**The Other Champion**

 **Chapter 5: The First Task**

* * *

 **Author's Note: The highly anticipated (I think) first task – from a different point of view! Hope you guys enjoy it, just as much as I enjoyed writing this.**

 **Thank you to Dorothea Greengrass, who beta-read this chapter! Any other mistakes you notice are my own.**

 **Special thanks to Newt Scamander, who provided me with an illustrated copy of** _ **Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them**_ **, and from where I was able to look up and determine if Erumpents and Fire-Crabs were really dangerous, and how much of a range does a Hungarian Horntail really have.**

* * *

 **Disclaimer: Recognizable portions in this chapter have been taken from Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, and Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, by J.K. Rowling. I neither own nor intend to make any profit from the use of Harry Potter and the associated characters of the series, in my story.**

* * *

 _ **Previously on "The Other Champion"…**_

 _'Never mind that, Potter, you can tell Professor McGonagall you were with me. In my office, please…'_

 _He glanced back at Warrington, who still had not moved, before following Moody along the corridor and to a flight of stairs directly to the fourth floor, where his office was. As he trudged along in Moody's wake, he wondered which was worse: getting caught by Moody for cheating in the Tournament, or walking in late to Professor McGonagall's class._

 _Lesser of two evils, I suppose._

 _ **Only if Moody doesn't turn me into a ferret.**_

 _And as he followed Moody into his office, he supposed being turned into a ferret would not be so bad, if it could help him survive the first task._

* * *

'Daphne?'

No answer.

'Daphne?'

Still no answer.

' _Daphne!'_

'What?'

The blonde fourth-year Slytherin jumped at the sudden exclamation of her name, and stared confusedly at her best friend, Tracy Davies, who was looking at her with a thoroughly exasperated expression. Both of them were startled as the third member of their group, the dark-skinned Blaise Zabini, unceremoniously dropped a stack of three thick tomes on their table; a small cloud of dust dissipated into the air, while the 'thud!' had attracted more than a few curious stares.

'Sod off,' hissed Blaise with an impatient wave of his hand; a group of third-year Hufflepuffs at the next table jerked away with fear, and huddled closer to their own books.

The three of them were in the library, working on their essay for Potions and Charms. Blaise had volunteered to fetch some of the dustier and more obscure tomes for their research, and had wandered off to the lesser frequented aisles. Tracy had chosen to look up her textbook first, and was currently copying out the history of the Summoning Charm from the large volume.

Daphne was working on her Potions essay – or at least, she had been trying to do so. Despite Snape's favouritism towards the Slytherins, Daphne did not think much of him as a professor, and even less as a Head of House; due to this, she did not feel too inclined to do a good job on it. And so it was that halfway through the required fourteen inches of parchment, she had given it up as a lost cause, shoved her draft away from her, and looked around the library.

Blaise still had not returned from his quest to dig out useful books – he was, in any case, nowhere to be seen from where their table was, a little off from the centre of the library. A group of third-year Hufflepuffs had snagged the table next to them, and were working on what appeared to be a Herbology essay. Students from other houses – most of whom appeared to be Ravenclaws, quite predictably – flitted in and out of the towering bookshelves, carrying books to either their tables or to the front desk, where Madam Pince, the vulture-like librarian, allowed them to check them out after a close inspection.

Her eyes wandered around to gaze out of the far window just ahead of her, and behind Tracy: the sky was a brilliant deep purple, a stark contrast to the dull grey it had been earlier that day. Flecks of red and gold were scattered across the sky from the setting sun, just visible beyond the distant mountains to the west. The lake – or at least what Daphne could see of it – glowed brilliantly from these rays pf light, just as the lanterns in the library came on.

She glanced down at her Potions essay; the parchment looked innocuously up at her, waiting for her to fill it with words traced with ink. She sighed, trying to convince herself that a few more minutes of break-time would not hurt her. The essay was due only on Friday – she still had a good five days to finish it, after all.

Daphne looked up just in time to see a boy with round glasses and messy jet black hair walk into the library, and head straight for the Magical Creatures section.

The boy who had been in her head for almost eight days now – longer than any other stranger. The boy who, with his simple act of kindness, had caused her to think about him more than what was strictly necessary.

Harry Potter.

Daphne had never expected him to be this… _different_ ; She did not know how else to phrase it. He was nothing like how her fellow Slytherins had portrayed him to be – arrogant, snobbish, and a show-off who was always trying to win points by being the teachers' pet.

Those words were more appropriate to describe Malfoy, rather than anyone else.

No, Potter was surely none of those. He was just…different. And in a good way – the way that intrigued her to the point that she really wanted to know more about him.

Therein came the snag.

How was she to get to know him better, if they could not speak to each other at all? They shared just two classes together, and even in those, most of her other House-mates were almost always present. And almost all of them were quite averse to engaging the Gryffindors – their supposed mortal enemies – in conversation. It was considered an insult to the noble House of Slytherin if you were ever caught conversing with a Gryffindor – except if it was to rile them up or antagonize them, like what Malfoy often did to Potter and his friends.

 _Twisted, pathetic logic._

Unfortunately, this rationale had formed a cornerstone for Slytherins with respect to their daily life in Hogwarts, and ultimately outside of it in the wizarding world. A member of Slytherin House was expected to know and follow these unwritten rules – going against them would, more often than not, result in being considered as a traitor and an outcast of the House.

It was not as though only the Slytherins were completely in the wrong, however: the members of the other Houses were equally guilty in having similar ingrained prejudices and crazy logics. Ravenclaws, for instance, were quite brutal against anyone – even one of their own – who did not conform to their image of 'intelligent students'. Gryffindors had a history of making fun of House-mates who were cowards, or did not display the required level of bravery that was associated with their House. Hufflepuffs…well, Daphne did not know too much about them, but they were sure to have some skeletons in their closet as well.

That being said, however, it did not take a genius to figure out why Slytherins were the most hated in the school. It was Salazar Slytherin who had left the school in a huff; it was because of him that four became three, and thus, the students of his House had to pay the price for it. Every child sorted into Slytherin was forced to wear the proverbial albatross around his or her neck, only because of a centuries-old feud over a long-forgotten issue – one that had been interpreted and re-hashed so many times no one knew what it really was.

This had ultimately descended into a petty school rivalry; and with the rivalry came the typical behaviour of students going against each other: trying to put the other down while simultaneously looking to elevate your status amongst the crowd. A never-ending, vicious circle, which only widened and got worse when things became a bit personal.

Now that, Daphne mused, could be attributed to Slytherins. Not that she was willing to take the blame for it, of course.

Over the years, as a consequence of the rivalry, every student of Slytherin had been forced to become immune to the insults and remarks passed by the students of the other Houses. While this worked well for some time, a few students felt compelled to give it back in equal measure – sometimes in ways that were not always honourable or friendly. The quarrel often continued even after the students left school and began working – certain Slytherin pure-bloods felt that it was beneath their dignity to work with a Gryffindor, and even more so if it was a Muggle-born.

While this was still manageable, there were still others from Slytherin who thought it appropriate to try and 'restore Slytherin's rightful place in the world': this they attempted to do by murders of 'unwanted people', brainwashing of 'righteous followers', and the like. Sadly, more often than not, these followers were from Slytherin as well: it descended to a point where Slytherin House was viewed as the breeding ground for Dark wizards: the Dark Lord being a prime example of this.

Quite to the contrary, not all Slytherin students went on to become Dark wizards, or even leaned towards the Dark Arts at all. Most of them were sorted into Slytherin for the sole reason that they had at least one of the qualities that Slytherin valued and prized – cunning, resourcefulness, and ambition – as their dominant traits. Rather unfortunately, however, these had been twisted to represent typical characteristics of Dark wizards. Even Parseltongue – the language of snakes – was now looked upon as 'evil', despite the fact that it was just another language.

This mind-set had become so ingrained in the minds of students over the years that no one had bothered to correct them at all. There were some that could have done so, but they chose to keep their heads down and get on with their lives, without sparing a thought for others. And thus, the Slytherins continued to behave as though they were students entitled to privileges that no other House could have, while the other Houses continued to detest Slytherins and their mannerisms.

 _Bad blood all around._

And so, despite her curiosity about Potter, Daphne did not want to run the risk of being ostracised by her House-mates by talking to him. The three of them were already seen as 'odd ones' by a majority of Slytherins – her indifferent, cold behaviour, Blaise's mother, and Tracy's heritage did not go well with the rest of the crowd – so there was no need to give them more dirt on her.

She was thankful, however, that no one else had spotted them exchanging brief smiles and grins whenever they made eye contact during the day. She was not sure which would have been worse – the reaction of her House-mates, and the school in general, or her embarrassment at being caught.

 _Potter certainly looked cute when he was embarrassed or confused, though._

Daphne suppressed a stupid grin creeping up on her face as she recalled the first time she had waved at Potter: it had been right after their Care of Magical Creatures class, when they had escaped the sudden downpour. It had been a bold step – not something that she usually did – but it had been worth it, even if it was just to see Potter's face light up, and then suddenly furrow his brow in confusion.

' _Daphne!'_

Her opportunity to re-live the moment was cut short by Tracy's exclamation of her name; Daphne's initial confused expression soon morphed into an annoyed glare, which had Tracy recoiling slightly. Thankfully, she was saved from answering any question that her friend could have had with Blaise's arrival at their table: they were both distracted by the books being dropped, while Tracy's attention was also caught by the extra reference material for her Charms essay.

'You should finish that essay, Daphne,' said Blaise, pointing to her unfinished Potions draft as he sat down with them. 'You won't have time to finish the Transfiguration essay tomorrow.'

Daphne sighed at that: while Snape would have probably let her off for not turning in his homework, McGonagall was not so forgiving. With great reluctance, she pulled the parchment towards her, trying to convince herself to finish it.

Five minutes later, she looked up, a little frustrated at the lack of progress, only to find Potter looking at her from across the room. He gave her a small, weary smile, before grabbing a load of books and heading out of the library.

Daphne could not help but smile in return; and almost instantly, her frustration seemed to seep away.

Blaise and Tracy had no idea why she had been smiling throughout the rest of her essay, nor could they figure out how she had managed to finish it so quickly.

* * *

The Great Hall was teeming and buzzing with chatter when Daphne, Tracy, and Blaise walked in on Thursday morning. The atmosphere around the Hall was one of great tension and excitement: it spread amongst everyone as they all speculated what was going to happen that day.

The first task of the Triwizard Tournament had finally arrived.

The three of them took their customary seats along with their classmates at the Slytherin table, in time to hear a few people calling out 'Good luck!' down the table at Cassius Warrington. Daphne stole a quick glance at him as she buttered her toast – he looked distinctly nervous and out-of-place, as though he was not sure if he wanted to be there.

Her attention was caught by a few cheers coming from the other side of the Hall – she looked up in time to see Potter, Weasley, and Granger walk in and take their seats for breakfast, as the Gryffindors cheered their champion on. Even from a distance, Potter looked a lot worse than Warrington: his complexion was slightly paler than usual, and his hair stood up even more than normal, as though he had run his hand through it a number of times. Her sharp eyes – Tracy often said she could spot what even McGonagall or Snape did not – could make out his slightly droopy eyes. Clearly, he had not had enough sleep the previous night.

A slight feeling of worry crept up within her, adding on to the anxiety she had been feeling since Monday – was Potter going to be okay? Even though they had been exchanging their usual smiles and waves, she could make out the slight strain and effort he was putting into them. Was it because of the pressure for the first task? Or did he not want to talk to her – even if they were not technically talking?

She had to force such thoughts out of her mind: somehow, she knew that Potter would have point-blank ignored her if he did not want to continue this 'game' they were playing. It had to be the pressure of the first task: he was only fourteen, after all, trying to compete against three fully-qualified contestants.

Daphne only hoped it wouldn't be too bad for him – or anyone else, she added as an afterthought.

'I must say, I half expected Potter to have run off by now,' came the drawling voice of Draco Malfoy from two seats to her left. 'I'm surprised he's still around to compete, I wonder why the Ministry hasn't done anything about it.'

'Probably wanted to keep him for his _hero-image_ ,' spat Theodore Nott on Malfoy's left.

Malfoy snorted. 'Yeah. Saint _Potter_ ,' he said derisively; Daphne noticed him looking over at the Gryffindor table, where Potter didn't seem to be eating anything. 'Look at him, the scrawny git.' The blonde glared at his black-haired counterpart, as though trying to do some sort of damage just by sight.

'I don't think he'll last long,' said Pansy Parkinson in a disdainful tone. 'Daddy told me the first task is always the most difficult, especially because the champions don't know what they're facing.'

Malfoy smirked. 'Ten galleons say he won't last ten minutes into the task.' He turned to Theodore and Pansy. 'What say?'

'You're on!' said Theodore, a little too enthusiastically.

The fifth and sixth year Slytherins seated near the group chuckled; soon enough, a few of them also exchanged bets on Potter's survival in the first task. This seemed to have a domino effect on most of the rest of Slytherin House – by the end of breakfast, almost three-quarters of Daphne's House-mates had wagered on Potter's defeat, with one third-year boy boldly claiming – for a princely sum of twenty galleons – that he would barely last thirty seconds.

'That's ridiculous!' said the third-year girl who had proposed the wager with the boy. 'Thirty seconds – even Potter isn't that rubbish!'

'It's the first task,' retorted the boy, waving his knife rather erratically; bits of toast and butter flew all around them. 'They always bring dangerous creatures for the first task – to fight them or something. Thirty seconds seems too generous anyway.' The boy grinned rather maliciously.

'Dangerous creatures?' asked Tracy, who had overheard the conversation – not that it was hard, given their loud volume. 'What d'you reckon they're getting this time?'

Daphne shrugged nonchalantly, but Blaise asked, 'This time?'

'Yeah,' said Tracy. 'They got a cockatrice in 1792…'

'Yes, but that was in 1792, Trace. They won't get cockatrices this time.'

'I know, I know…' She stared at the wall as though deep in thought. 'Maybe they'll get an Erumpent.'

'An Erumpent? Are you mad? Those things are beyond dangerous!'

'Okay, fine, maybe a Fire-Crab? Get its shells, maybe…'

'Might as well use the Skrewts for that, to be honest.'

'Eurgh, no thanks.'

Daphne tuned them out, choosing instead to focus on her toast; yet, she could not help but feel that this time, it would be worse than simply catching a cockatrice.

Breakfast ended rather quickly after that – once the bets were placed and noted down, the fourth-year Slytherins filed out of the Great Hall and headed for Charms with the Hufflepuffs. The mood in the Great Hall had successfully seeped into every student, however; none of them seemed inclined to be present in the class at all. Quite graciously, Professor Flitwick recognised it at once, and allowed them to practice some simple Charms from their third-year for the first half hour, post which they were left to their own devices.

The remainder of the morning passed in similar fashion; soon, the entire school had congregated for lunch at the Great Hall once more. Every student was practically bouncing in their seats – well, every student except the champions; Daphne noted Potter and Warrington looking even paler than how they were earlier that day. A quick glance confirmed that Viktor Krum and the Delacour girl were no different; then again, Krum's surly visage rarely changed at all.

It seemed like only a few minutes later – although they had already progressed to desserts – when Professor Snape came striding down to the Slytherin table, his black cloak billowing about slightly with his pace, and looking – surprisingly – slightly worried. As a hush fell over the occupants – including the visiting Durmstrang contingent – he headed straight to where Warrington was seated; a whispered conversation later, she saw Warrington rise from his seat and follow their Head of House out of the Great Hall.

As her eyes followed Warrington's trail, Daphne spotted Potter being led out by Professor McGonagall, who was very visibly anxious. Right behind them were Fleur Delacour and Viktor Krum, accompanied by their respective Heads – the large Madame Maxime, and the goateed Igor Karkaroff.

Ten minutes later, the hush from the Slytherin table extended to the rest of the school, as Professor Dumbledore stood up. 'Ladies and gentlemen, it is time. I must ask you to follow your Head Boy and Girl, and the House prefects, to the venue for the first task.'

There was a great deal of noise – benches were scraped and pushed back, cutlery was dropped onto the table and plates, and students happily chattered away as they all exited the Hall and made their way onto the sloping grounds. It was a beautiful November day – the sun was out, with a few clouds for company, but there was still the veritable chill in the air. Bundled up in cloaks and scarfs, the students of Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang passed by Hagrid's hut, walked around the large paddock that housed the giant winged horses of Beauxbatons, and skirted the edge of the Forbidden Forest – the level of anticipation only increased as they did so. Teachers and prefects did their level best to control the crowd, making sure that the younger years did not get lost in the Forest, and the older students did not voluntarily sneak off into it.

They had walked so far along the perimeter of the Forest that the castle and the lake were now completely out of sight. Just as Daphne began to wonder how much farther they needed to walk, she spotted a large, yellow tent, erected right behind a clump of trees. Daphne thought it was an odd choice for a tent, of all things – had some people camped here for the first task?

Just then, as they approached closer, something distinctly odd caught her eye: thick planks of wood were stretched out like a fence right behind the tent, as though they were protecting something within – or were they protecting the ones outside? As she pondered this, the faint smell of burning wood reached her nostrils – some of the branches in the clump of trees were smouldering…

And then they walked past the tent, right up to the fence, and Daphne's jaw dropped.

It was as though someone had taken the spectator stands of the Quidditch stadium from the Hogwarts grounds and placed it here – only that they hadn't done a very good job of it; and that the stands were now magically expanded to accommodate a sizeably bigger crowd… The ground, however, looked nothing like the vast, smooth expanse of grass that was a Quidditch pitch: it was ragged and rocky, with boulders strewn here and there to give it a mountainous appearance; several deep holes had been made into the earth as well – as though that same someone had forgotten to put rocks in those spaces.

The spectator stands too, on a closer inspection, looked markedly different: instead of the traditional four sections that were reserved for each House of Hogwarts, there were now multiple sections for the crowd to take their seats. One particular segment – right opposite the enclosure entrance – was covered by a large tarpaulin, with raised seats that were draped in gold: presumably the seats for the judges.

As Daphne stood stock still and watched, the stands began to fill up with students, eager to see some exciting event. The numerous sections had been created, presumably, to encourage inter-mingling amongst the students of different schools; rather unfortunately, it had not helped much. The Durmstrang students, looking quite imposing in their blood-red robes, had claimed an entire section for themselves, and were making a great deal of noise in support of their champion. Banners sporting the words 'Viktor Krum shampionŭt' and 'Otidete Viktor' had been draped along the lowest row of the stands – Daphne did not need to be a genius to figure out what they said.

Likewise, the Beauxbatons students had occupied another section nearby; they too, like their Durmstrang counterparts, had hung up large banners along the stands to encourage Fleur Delacour. Having learnt and studied French while growing up ( _'One must always learn a foreign language, young lady,'_ Isabella Greengrass had insisted), Daphne had no problem in reading them, as they glittered and sparkled rather obnoxiously in the sun.

The remaining sections were filling up with Hogwarts students – and even there, it appeared to be on the basis of their Houses. The Slytherins, who were loudly cheering and chanting Warrington's name, were heading to the stand closest to the Durmstrang contingent, while the Ravenclaws had taken over the section next to the Beauxbatons students. The Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs had sat down in the rest; the former, led by the rambunctious Weasley twins, were yelling themselves hoarse in favour of Potter's victory.

Movement near the judges' seats caught her eye – the three Heads, along with Mr Crouch, had ascended the steps and were taking their seats. The Hogwarts staff were already seated next to them, along with a group of official looking wizards, presumably from the Ministry of Magic. Daphne saw Filch, donned in his mouldy tailcoat, staring grumpily around at the students, with a silver whistle hanging around his neck.

With a jolt, Daphne suddenly realised that she was, quite surprisingly, the only one left to enter the enclosure. She had barely taken a few steps forward toward the entrance, when she heard footsteps from behind her, near the opening of the tent – it sounded like a couple of people were walking out. Turning quickly, she spotted Ludo Bagman, the former Beater for the Wimbourne Wasps, striding towards the trees on this side of the forest, closer to the wooden fence. Trailing behind him, looking a little out-of-place and confused, was Harry Potter.

Daphne frowned slightly. Why on earth was Ludo Bagman, of all people, walking with Potter just minutes before the first task was due to start? And in private too – Bagman looked like someone who did not want to be seen.

 _What is going on?_

An uncharacteristic bubble of curiosity enveloped her – she did not know why, but she wanted to find out what Bagman was up to. Quietly, she stole into the lengthening shadows cast by the clump of trees in front of the tent, right behind Potter and Bagman, while making sure she could not be seen. A quick glance around her confirmed that, for the moment, the three of them were quite alone.

She crept closer to the pair of them, alternating her focusing between their figures and the crowd below, to make sure she did not accidentally crack a twig and alert them. Fortunately, the ground seemed to be quite clear – even the dry leaves had drifted into the forest due to the occasional burst of wind.

Bagman finally came to a stop a few feet ahead; Daphne saw him turn around to face Potter with a rather caring expression on his face.

 _That's odd._

She strained her ears to overhear the conversation – luckily, the gentle wind was blowing in her direction, carrying their voices over to her.

'Feeling all right, Harry? Anything I can get you?'

She saw Potter looking up at the older man, still looking very confused at the entire situation. Daphne could not blame him – Bagman was supposed to be one of the judges, and to have to chat with him right before competing in an extremely dangerous task of the Tournament that he was not supposed to a part of in the first place did not appear to bode well.

'What?' said Potter. 'I – no, nothing.'

Bagman suddenly lowered his voice – needlessly, thought Daphne, as there wasn't a soul in sight for a mile apart from her.

'Got a plan?' His voice sounded very…conspiratorial. 'Because I don't mind sharing a few pointers, if you'd like them, you know. I mean,' and here, his voice went even lower; Daphne was forced to take a few hurried steps forward to listen properly, 'you're the underdog here, Harry… Anything I can do help…'

Daphne frowned at this, just as the Slytherin part of her brain – the one that had been constantly criticising her decision to follow Potter and Bagman – now went into overdrive: why was Bagman talking about helping Potter? Was the task so dangerous that there was no chance for Potter to survive it? Or was he just being very friendly? Either way, it did not seem – appropriate – for a Ministry official, and a judge of the Tournament, to be offering assistance to a school champion – youngest or otherwise.

Potter had responded so quickly to Bagman's statement that she had missed it completely. She re-focused on what the black-haired teenager was saying. 'No – I – I know what I'm going to do, thanks.'

'Nobody would _know_ , Harry.'

Daphne had to stifle a laugh despite the situation; the wink from Bagman was so obvious and visible, even from a mile off. She supposed Bagman was reasonably confident that they were alone, but even so, it was too blatant as it is. It did confirm one thing, though – he was definitely being too friendly with Potter. It was as though…

As though he wanted to make sure that Potter won.

 _If that is true…_

'No, I'm fine,' said Potter. Daphne almost snorted out loud at that – Potter was most certainly _not_ fine. The time he had spent inside the tent seemed to have made it worse for him – he looked extremely pale and peaky. His legs were also shivering very slightly – although that could still have been because of the chilly air.

'I've got a plan worked out, I –'

A shrill whistle sounded in the distance.

Bagman jumped. 'Good Lord, I've got to run!' he exclaimed in alarm, and he hurried off.

Straight towards where Daphne stood, peeking out from behind the clump of trees.

 _Shit._

She turned around and flattened herself against the thickest tree trunk; Bagman was sure to rush past her without a backward glance; hopefully, he would not see her, or there would be annoying and unnecessary questions to be answered; she did not want to get into all of it just then…

Mercifully, just as she had hoped, Bagman ran past her and headed straight for the enclosure entrance. Her heart racing, still standing flat against the tree trunk, she let out a deep breath she did not realise she had been holding. That had been a close shave – getting caught for overhearing such a conversation was not something she had wanted.

Although, on some level, she was glad she did overhear it after all. Bagman's odd behaviour certainly raised some interesting questions, not least regarding his motive for trying to help Potter with the first task, and potentially the entire Tournament. Was he genuinely concerned for Potter, or was it for his own gain? If it was the latter – and that seemed likely, given the circumstances – how much did he stand to gain out of it? Or was someone else the ultimate beneficiary in this entire set-up?

Daphne shook her head forcefully: now was not the time to focus on all of this. She mentally filed it away to think about it later – possibly with Tracy and Blaise as well; she heaved another sigh, and stepped out from behind the tree trunk.

Only to come face-to-face with Potter.

 _ **Shit.**_

Mouth dry, and heart pumping once again, she looked right at him. His brilliant green eyes, framed behind his round-rimmed glasses, seemed to be staring right through her – what the Muggles called 'scanning' or 'ex-raying'. He had an inquisitive look on his face, no doubt wondering what she was doing behind that particular clump of trees, of all places, instead of in the stands where she was supposed to be.

She became suddenly aware of her hands, which she had been wringing for the last one minute (had it really been that long?); they felt clammy and sweaty at the same time – was that normal? It was probably the chilly wind that had got to her; she had, after all, not thought to wear any gloves.

So intent had she been on her hands, of all things, that she almost missed what he said.

'Sorry?' she said; it came out more like a high-pitched squeak.

Potter's mouth twisted into a slight grin, as though he wasn't sure if he was allowed to smile or laugh.

'What are you doing here?'

 _And there it is._

Daphne froze – at least, her mouth and brain seemed to have shut down completely, while her hands continued to fidget away. She had no answer to his question – the truth was, anyway, not the ideal answer to give to Potter. She was not sure why she was acting like this at all: what was so different about Potter that made her behave like this – a dumbstruck, little girl. What happened to the girl in the hospital wing that had questioned him about reading her diary? What happened to the young lady who was known for her frigid stares at strangers and unruly people?

'I – erm –'

Potter chuckled softly at her attempted response, causing her to regain some semblance of control over her senses. He was laughing at her? She glared at him indignantly, but instead of intimidating him, it only served as a catalyst for him to chuckle even more.

Potter's sniggers subsided after a few moments, leaving her still glaring at him, albeit half-heartedly. He still had an annoying smirk on his face – something which she wanted to wipe off, but at the same thought was rather cute.

 _Wait, what?_

Cute? Where had thought come from? Potter was not cute – he did not look cute from any angle whatsoever. He was a scrawny, thin fellow who always wore clothes that were too big for him. His hair stuck up in odd angles all the time, and those glasses looked quite horrendous. Surely he wasn't cute!

 _ **Yeah, right.**_

 _No, he is not cute!_

 _ **Stop trying to fool yourself, Daphne.**_

 _I don't know what you're talking about._

She could see a mental image of herself, crossing her arms together on her chest and behaving like an obstinate young girl.

 _ **Yes, you do. You're just not ready to accept the fact that he is cute.**_

 _He is NOT!_

It took her a few moments to realise that she had said that last statement out loud. Potter was now giving her an odd look, as though he was not sure of her mental stability.

 _ **Yep, you're definitely mental.**_

She let out a small groan, wondering why she was having an argument on Potter's cuteness with herself, effectively. The boy in question seemed, if possible, even more confused.

 _ **Well, at least that smirk is off his face now.**_

 _Oh, shut up._

Daphne shook her head, trying to visualise throwing the annoying voice off balance and making it fall off – somewhere. Successful at least for the time being, she looked up once again to meet Potter's green eyes.

'It's – nothing, Potter,' she said, with as much calm and normality she could muster.

Thankfully, he did not pry, and simply nodded in understanding. Daphne imagined he must have given the same explanation to hundreds of people already, for some reason or the other.

A great cheer went up from the spectators in the stands of the enclosure, causing both of them to jump up in surprise. Daphne saw Potter glance between the enclosure, and something beyond her, which she surmised must be the tent.

'I – I should go,' he said, and he suddenly looked pale and clammy once again. Daphne had to fight a sudden impulse to reach out and hug him in comfort.

'Yeah,' she said. 'I need to – to go too.' She signalled awkwardly towards the enclosure and the stands beyond.

'Right, okay,' he said. 'I – I'll see you around?'

He had phrased it as a question. Daphne wasn't sure what to say – did he expect her to meet up with him like this regularly? She could hear her inner voice laughing at this thought: even if they did, what would they even say to each other?

And yet, she ended up nodding at his words, trying not to inadvertently blush – even though there was no conceivable reason to do so.

'Right,' said Potter again. He gave a rather forced smile – whether it was because of the awkward situation or the nervousness for the task ahead, she didn't know – then trudged past her in the direction of the tent.

Daphne watched him go, before heading toward the stands herself. And try as she might, she could not fight against the small smile gracing her face.

Neither of them had noticed the small, fat beetle crawling on the closest tree trunk…

* * *

Krum and Delacour had not done too badly, thought Daphne, as she settled down after giving a rising ovation to the latter. Then again, she felt they had got the easiest of the dragons to contend with.

 _Dragons._

Daphne was still in a state of disbelief – dragons! For the first task! They had dismissed Erumpents and what-not because they would have been too dangerous, but dragons were given the highest possible 'Beasts' classification by the Ministry of Magic – and that meant they were classed as 'known wizard killers'.

'Killers, Daphne!' Tracy had exclaimed when they had heard Bagman's announcement regarding the first task. _'Killers!'_

Daphne had not trusted herself to respond to her best friend – she was internally grasping for some sort of support or anchor. The fact that each champion had to face a fully-grown female dragon was horrible enough; adding to that, these were nesting mother dragons, and they had to steal a golden egg from them. How were they supposed to achieve it? Or even survive?

So it was with great apprehension that they watched the first two contestants – the champions from the visiting schools – do battle with their dragons. For Krum at least, that was quite literally the case; he had come into the enclosure and fired a mean-looking Conjunctivitis Curse straight into the eyes of the Chinese Fireball. Unerring accuracy, and probably a really effective way of dealing with it ( _'The dragon's eyes are its weakest point,'_ Blaise had explained over the loud cheers), but it came at a cost; the Fireball, in its blind rage, had trampled onto half of its real eggs. Daphne had noticed the dragon-keepers, who were on-hand and observing the task closely, look extremely disheartened by that.

Fleur Delacour, on the other hand, had sought to avoid any and all conflict with the dragon; it was thus that she performed a complicated sort of charm, and then began to sing a crooning lullaby. It seemed to have worked: the Welsh Green – one of the dragons native to the British Isles – instantly dropped its head and body onto the ground; its eyes closed shut, and it began to snore softly, despite the crowd making the loudest noise yet with cheers and songs. The only issue Delacour had faced was when the Welsh Green had let out a particular rasping and intense snore – a thin jet of flame had shot out from its nostrils, only to land on her skirt and set it on fire. Mercifully for her, she had been quite close to the edge of the enclosure with the golden egg clutched in her hands, so the flames had been doused out rather quickly.

'Ladies and gentlemen!' Bagman's magically amplified voice sounded around the enclosure once more. 'The champions of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang have finished their first task!' Loud cheers erupted from the respective sections of the stands, their banners fluttering in the light breeze. 'We now have the next champion – the champion of Hogwarts, Cassius Warrington!'

The reaction to Warrington's appearance on the ground was mixed but mostly typical: the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students clapped and cheered; the Slytherins jumped up and down as they whistled and shouted deafeningly; and the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws let out a huge round of boos. What was definitely surprising was the reaction of the Gryffindors, who had followed their counterparts from the visiting schools, and clapped politely as Warrington entered the arena.

'That's odd,' said Daphne to Tracy and Blaise, pointing this out to them.

'Well, we've never really seen any of them trying to put Cassius down, have we?' said Blaise, and he was right: none of them could ever recall any of the Gryffindors ever saying a rude word against Warrington at all. In fact, Potter had even admitted outright that Warrington was the true Hogwarts champion, while he was just a –

'An unfortunate stowaway,' said Blaise, sniggering as he recalled Malfoy's shocked face when Potter had said so.

The three of them, along with the rest of the crowd, watched intently as Warrington put his left hand into his pocket – his right hand clutched his wand – and pulled out something small. It seemed to be a creature of some sort: even from a distance, they could discern its scuttling and scurrying on his palm.

Suddenly, a muted gasp went up from certain sections of the crowd – most notably, from those who were staring at Warrington through their Omnioculars. Cries of 'Whoa!'; 'Where did he get that from?'; and 'What's he going to do?!' filled the air as he bent down, dropped the creature on the ground, straightened up, and pointed his wand – not at the Swedish Short-Snout that stood staring at him from the other side of enclosure, but at the small creature that seemed to be scuttling away from him.

' _Engorgio!'_

And as the spell shot out of his wand, hit the creature, and took effect, Daphne understood, with a horrified gasp of her own, what the cries from the students were about.

The students situated in the stands closest to Warrington recoiled as the second, slightly smaller dragon, erupted from the ground. The replica of the Swedish Short-Snout reared its head and roared, exulting in its freedom and size. A jet of brilliant blue fire shot out of its mouth, dissipating into the air above and causing it to shimmer in the heat. The silvery-blue enlarged model spread its wings – at least twenty feet across – and turned to face its real-life counterpart.

'Whoa!' exclaimed Blaise, his eyes transfixed upon the new dragon, his mouth stretched into a wide grin. 'What a masterstroke!'

'Masterstroke?!' yelled Tracy, her face half hidden beneath her scarf, which she had pulled up in fear as she saw the second dragon emerge. 'This is insane!'

Daphne, however, was looking down at the ground. 'Where's Warrington?!'

Her two friends snapped their eyes to near the feet of the second dragon, where they had last seen the Slytherin – the key word being 'last'. He seemed to have disappeared from the enclosure completely; seemed to have become completely invisible…

'Disillusionment Charm!' came the shout from a seventh-year Slytherin a few rows above them. 'Look, near the pile of rocks!'

The Slytherins who had heard him all trained their gazes – some of them through their Omnioculars – toward the particular cluster of rocks their House-mate had pointed out. Sure enough, they could see the air around the rocks shimmer, as though something was disturbing that particular concentrated area. A few moments later, another shimmer, a few paces to the right…then another, and another…

'Genius!' yelled Blaise, and Daphne had to agree. It seemed like a very Slytherin thing to do – getting another thing to fight your battle, while you sneaked in and made away with the prize.

If only it were that simple.

Daphne remembered reading, quite eagerly, Newt Scamander's book: _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ , when her father had bought it for her just before her first year at Hogwarts. She had read it through the day, fascinated by the descriptions of the Beasts provided by the author, and the excellent moving illustrations of Doxies, Horned Serpents and Occamies. Newt Scamander's rather enthusiastic and loveable accounts of the Beasts had been one of the main reasons for her to choose Care of Magical Creatures as one of her elective subjects.

Now, three years later, as she sat amongst her House-mates, watching the first task of the Triwizard Tournament, in an enclosure that had two Swedish Short-Snouts, a distinct line from her old, worn-out copy of the book came back to her.

 _The female is generally larger and more aggressive than the male._

The real Swedish Short-Snout was a female – a nesting, mother dragon.

The replica, unfortunately, was a male. And it had been enlarged by magic.

'GRRRRAAAAHHHH!'

 _Very well said, mother dragon._

The poor replica dragon didn't even see it coming. Flushed as it was with its size and potential ability to fly, it had not expected the real creature to attack it, let alone this brutally.

The brilliant blue flame shot out of the female's mouth, hitting the male straight on the face; its eyes widened just a tad, but enough to express its shock; it keeled over from the impact and the burning heat – but there was no huge thud after that.

Gasps of shock and horror echoed across the enclosure as they all stared, awe-struck, at what remained of the replica dragon: a small pile of ash and powder.

The female let out an ear-splitting roar, one that was even louder than its previous battle-cry; it echoed at least thrice across the enclosure, and a few birds took flight from the closest trees in the Forest, twittering madly at the sound.

It took a few moments for the crowd to finally realise that they weren't there to watch the spectacle of two dragons being pitted against each other.

'Look at Warrington!'

All heads swivelled to the ground, where it took them another few moments to spot the Hogwarts champion.

The good thing was he was carrying the golden egg, and was running as fast as he could to the entrance.

The bad thing was his Disillusionment Charm had worn off.

The really bad thing was the dragon had spotted him.

'GRRRRAAAAHHHH!'

'Run, Warrington!'

And run he did. Daphne saw him scamper along the ground, squeeze between two large boulders, sprint across a particularly smooth stretch, and acrobatically jump over a rather large hole in the ground; another blast of blue flame scorched across the surface, just missing the hem of his robes…he sheltered behind a huge boulder, panting and catching his breath…the last stretch was just a few hundred yards away…he could sprint it, cross the finish line…

He screwed his face up in concentration, the golden egg cradled protectively in the crook of his left arm, his right hand tightly clutching his wand…

Warrington burst out from behind the rock, sprinting as though his life depended on it – and it did depend on it…he jumped over another, smaller hole…he was halfway there…less than fifty yards away – forty, thirty, twenty…

' _Watch out!'_

The desperate warning sounded out from above Daphne; turning, she noticed the Short-Snout readying herself, aiming for the one final strike – the last, final blow of the hammer…Warrington was only fifteen yards from the line…

And this time, its aim was true.

The yell had served its purpose, no doubt; heeding it, Warrington had jumped, in a bid to clear the last few yards at once; it seemed to have done the trick – the distance was now less than ten yards, almost there…

But right at the last moment, he slipped on his landing – tripping on a stray piece of rock dislodged from Krum's battle; he flung out his right arm, still clutching his wand, trying to land with minimal damage; his elbow connected with the ground first, just as the brilliant blue burst of flame met the lower half of his body, still in the air – and then he crashed to the ground, just across the finish line, the golden egg safely ensconced in his left arm…

Deafening cheers sounded out as the crowd erupted – not even Krum's battle had been this epic, adrenaline-charged, with a nail-biting, nervous end to it all. For it was definitely a slightly nervous end – Warrington was screaming with barely constrained agony as the smell of burning flesh floated across the ground – his right leg had been caught in the direct line of the fire, and despite having removed it quickly, the burn was still severe.

Madam Pomfrey hurried over immediately from inside a small tent erected just next to the champions' tent; she waved her wand over Warrington's leg even as Professor McGonagall conjured a stretcher out of thin air, while Professor Snape levitated Warrington onto it; together, the three staff members floated the injured, but successful Hogwarts champion inside the medical tent.

'What a performance!' came Bagman's amplified voice. 'What an inspired move – enlarging the small model dragon to fight its counterpart! Pity it didn't last the entire time though, that would have been truly spectacular!'

The crowd roared its approval, interspersed with applause that rent the chilly evening air.

'And now, our last and youngest champion, Harry Potter!'

The cheers and applause were as loud as those for Warrington, if not louder; the crowd were finally appreciating just how difficult the first task was, and understood that Potter would probably have his work cut out for him. They had so far seen a Swedish Short-Snout, a Chinese Fireball, and a Common Welsh Green as the adversaries for the three champions; there weren't many other dragons who were less ferocious than these three. With luck, Potter could get an Antipodean Opaleye, or a slightly docile Romanian Longhorn as his dragon, allowing him a slightly easier run to get the golden egg.

As Potter walked into the enclosure, Daphne could see him still looking a little peaky. She couldn't blame him – sitting up here in the stands was bad enough; he was just fourteen, not even of age, and had to actually face off against a nesting female dragon. The wait inside the tent, all alone, with only the sounds from the enclosure for company, would have been gut-wrenching.

The dragon-keepers brought in the last dragon for Potter, and a shuddering gasp rippled around the stadium.

A Hungarian Horntail.

'If the rumours of his adventures are true, Potter's got the worst luck out of anyone in the school,' whispered Blaise to Daphne and Tracy; Daphne had to grudgingly admit that he was right.

If the Swedish Short-Snout was known for its incinerating flame, the Horntail was known for pretty much every conceivable natural weapon one could accessorise a dragon with. Its black scales were tougher than most other dragons, and its feet ended in wickedly curved claws. The bronze horns on its head – supposedly extremely magical in nature – matched the sharp horns that ran from the end of its back till the tip of its long tail. With a fire-breathing range of up to fifty feet, it was generally accepted amongst dragon-breeders, keepers, and enthusiasts, as the fiercest and most dangerous of all dragon breeds, with the Norwegian Ridgeback coming a close second.

The Horntail in the enclosure growled slightly – and even that sounded like a hundred dogs growling at the same time into a microphone – as she spotted Potter at the other side of the enclosure. Gleaming yellow eyes with vertical black pupils narrowed in anticipation of easy game: the puny human in front of her was unlikely to provide any sort of resistance – one quick blast of her red-hot fire would do fine.

Daphne looked between Potter and the crouching dragon, with her wings half-furled as her tail thrashed against the ground, leaving yard-long gouge marks. The Slytherins around her were guffawing, with most of them already rubbing their hands in glee in anticipation of Potter's failure, and their consequent winnings from their bets. She tried to drown their delighted cheers and laughter out; her insides were squirming with worry for the young boy down there – the boy she thought of as a friend…

Potter raised his wand.

' _Accio Firebolt!'_

 _What?_

The rest of the Slytherins had stopped their chortling, and looked just as confused as she was. What on earth was Potter doing? What use would a broom prove to be against one of the most dangerous dragon breeds, ever? And Summoning it? There was no way that would work – his broom was all the way back in the castle; there was absolutely no way his Charm was strong enough to get it to the enclosure…

A sudden rushing sound reached her ears; something was flying toward the enclosure; she turned towards it, and her jaw dropped.

 _No way…_

The polished ash handle of a Firebolt, with the smooth, streamlined birch twigs in its tail, gleamed in the sunlight as it sped towards its owner from the edge of the Forest; it soared into the enclosure and stopped dead in mid-air, right next to Potter, and at the perfect height for him to mount…

There was silence from the crowd, stunned as they were at what they had just witnessed; a Summoning Charm was quite difficult to pull off in normal circumstances; yet, Potter – all of fourteen years old – had just successfully cast it in a tremendous pressure situation…

'YES!'

The yell of sheer delight had come from Hermione Granger, all the way on the other side of the enclosure; and with that, the bubble burst; the crowd began cheering and shouting raucously, jumping up and down as they marvelled at the extraordinary feat of magic they had just witnessed. Daphne could not help it – she jumped up and clapped too, cheering and shouting her disbelief in just about every way imaginable – for where would anyone get a chance to witness such magic once more?

Potter pocketed his wand, mounted his broom, and kicked off from the ground; and as he soared higher and higher, till he was but a small speck in the sky, Daphne felt as though a considerable weight of worry had been taken off her; she could not understand why, but she knew – just _knew_ – that Potter was back where he belonged – in the air – and that he was going to win this.

And goodness, did he win it well.

Years later, Daphne would probably term it as the day she finally appreciated what an extraordinary wizard Harry Potter was: the sheer courage, outright determination to get things done, his immense power and concentration that was required to Summon the broom from the castle; the day certainly proved to be an eye-opener for Daphne Greengrass.

Not to mention his phenomenal flying skills, of course – his first dive almost brought her heart into her mouth with its recklessness, but he had made it look so easy; after that, it was as though he was playing a game with the Horntail – teasing her, trying to get her to catch him while he flew just out of reach, taunting her to fly up and swat him away…

And then, with a sudden burst of speed and finesse that left the crowd shrieking and gasping, Potter dived once more, just as the Horntail had risen off the ground, spreading its immense wings in the hope of catching him…he had dropped almost completely vertically at first, then he flattened out as he soared under the dragon's great underside, towards the unguarded nest…towards the gleaming, golden egg…

'Will you look at that?!' yelled Bagman, and even his amplified voice was barely audible over the explosion of noise from the crowd, as Potter emerged, clutching the golden egg under his uninjured right arm. 'Our youngest champion is quickest to get his egg! Well, this is going to shorten the odds on Mr Potter!'

Even the rest of the Slytherins looked dumbstruck at this performance – and rightly so; Potter had managed to prove his doubters wrong, had managed to show everyone that even he could do what three other fully qualified competitors could; that he too, was a champion in his own right…

And as she watched Potter land near the medical tent, an extremely relieved and satisfied expression on his face, she could not help but match the grin he was wearing.

 _ **Oh, you are definitely meeting him now.**_

 _Don't I know it._


	7. Will You Go With Me?

**The Other Champion**

 **Chapter 6: 'Will you go with me?'**

* * *

 **Author's Note: Multiple points of view here – because recounting the Yule Ball from Harry's perspective is just repeating canon all over again. In other words, boring.**

 **Hope you enjoy reading this chapter, as much as I enjoyed writing it.**

 **Also, I'm going to blatantly give co-author and beta credits to Dorothea Greengrass – without her, this chapter would have remained a bunch of half-baked ideas bouncing around in my head.**

 **A big thanks to my English teacher from the ninth grade, who made me understand just what William Shakespeare (credits to him as well) was talking about in Sonnet CXVI.**

* * *

 **Disclaimer: Recognisable portions in this chapter have been taken from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, by J.K. Rowling. I neither own nor intend to make any profit from the use of Harry Potter and the associated characters of the series, in my story.**

* * *

 _ **Previously on "The Other Champion"…**_

' _Will you look at that?!' yelled Bagman, and even his amplified voice was barely audible over the explosion of noise from the crowd, as Potter emerged, clutching the golden egg under his uninjured right arm. 'Our youngest champion is quickest to get his egg! Well, this is going to shorten the odds on Mr Potter!'_

 _Even the rest of the Slytherins looked dumbstruck at this performance – and rightly so; Potter had managed to prove his doubters wrong, had managed to show everyone that even he could do what three other fully qualified competitors could; that he too, was a champion in his own right…_

 _And as she watched Potter land near the medical tent, an extremely relieved and satisfied expression on his face, she could not help but match the grin he was wearing._

 **Oh, you are definitely meeting him now.**

Don't I know it.

* * *

' _Dance partners? I don't dance.'_

' _Oh yes, you do,' said Professor McGonagall irritably. 'That's what I'm telling you. Traditionally, the champions and their partners open the ball.'_

' _I'm not dancing.'_

' _It is traditional,' said Professor McGonagall firmly. 'You are a Hogwarts champion, and you will do what is expected of you as a representative of the school. So make sure you get yourself a partner, Potter.'_

' _But – I don't –'_

' _You heard me, Potter,' said Professor McGonagall in a very final sort of way._

Harry sighed, for seemed like the millionth time that evening, as the conversation from earlier that day replayed in his head yet again. Beside him in the Gryffindor common room, Ron sniggered, while Hermione gave him an exasperated look, before returning to her Transfiguration essay.

 _Dancing!_ How was he, Harry, supposed to dance at a ball? He had never learned how to dance at formal occasions before – the Dursleys had not bothered to spend that money on him anyway – and now, he had to open the Yule Ball in front of the entire school. And the contingents from the visiting schools too! _How?_

Scratch that: he first needed to get a dance partner.

Not for the first time that day, Harry's insides seemed to curl up and shrivel, as he contemplated on the prospect of getting someone to dance with him at a Ball. The nervous reaction of his insides was only compounded by his outward response – the thought of dance partners made his face go red almost at once.

Ron sniggered again. Harry shot him an irritated look.

'You'll have to get a partner too, you know,' said Harry. 'You can't end up going alone to the ball.'

As if on cue, Fred and George Weasley plopped onto the armchairs right in front of them.

'McGonagall's told you lot, then?' asked Fred serenely. 'About the ball?'

'Yeah,' said Ron, now suddenly gloomy and forlorn.

'What are you moping about?' said George in surprise.

Ron looked over at him. 'We'll have to get dates to the ball, haven't we?'

'Yeah, so?'

Ron frowned. 'Have you already got yours, then?'

'Yep,' said Fred promptly – and without the slightest trace of embarrassment, continued, 'Angelina.'

Harry, Ron, and even Hermione looked quite taken aback. The ball had been announced hardly an hour or two ago, so even by Fred's standards, this was quite surprising.

'And you?' asked Ron, shifting his attention to the other Weasley twin.

'Katie,' replied George, almost immediately.

Ron's mouth fell open to form a small 'o', while Hermione raised her eyebrows speculatively. 'Have you even asked them yet?' she asked.

'Oh, yeah, good point,' said Fred. He looked around the common room, but there was no sign of the tell-tale braided black hair. 'Ah well, I'll ask her later, I suppose.'

George, however, did not seem to want to wait for his twin: Harry noticed that Katie had just entered the common room along with her friends, all of whom were grinning and giggling away. Presumably, they had been informed of the ball as well.

'Oi, Katie!' called George.

The common room, which up till then had been rather noisy and boisterous, fell silent at George's shout. Katie, who had seemed slightly startled at being addressed in public, located George through the mass of people and grinned.

'Yes, George?' she asked, her left eyebrow raised inquisitively – but she was still grinning.

'D'you want to go to the ball with me?'

The reaction was instantaneous – everyone in the common room looked stunned, while half of them gasped. Well, everyone except one person, of course – Harry noticed Ginny Weasley, seated on the other side near the window, shaking her head in what seemed like fond exasperation at her brother's antics.

To everyone's amazement, however, Katie barely batted an eyelid. She gave George an appraising sort of look, and, with her grin widening, said, 'Yeah, all right, then.'

George threw her a huge wink across the room, just as the crowd burst into applause. He was about to turn back to the others, when Katie called back, 'No jokes or funny business, George!'

'Wouldn't dream of it, love,' George shot back, without missing a beat. He finally turned back to Harry and the others, an impish smile on his face as Fred patted him on the back. Harry saw Katie shake her head and grin, before joining her friends who were congratulating her on being asked to the ball.

'There you go,' said George to Harry and Ron, 'piece of cake.'

Hermione raised her eyebrow. 'You were scared out of your wits.'

Harry and Ron looked incredulously over at Hermione, but George was nodding. 'Never been more terrified in my life,' he admitted. Fred rubbed his back sympathetically, while Hermione nodded decisively and returned to her essay.

'Right then,' said Fred, getting to his feet. 'You lot had better get a move on – you don't want to end up going alone, do you?'

They left. Ron looked across at Harry worriedly. 'Any idea who you'd want to go with?'

Harry did not answer; he had honestly not contemplated upon who he would possibly want to ask to the ball. His mind was still coming to terms with the entire situation.

Despite his own apprehension about getting a partner, Ron seemed to realise what was going in Harry's head.

'Give it a couple of days, Harry. You're a school champion, and you've just beaten a Hungarian Horntail. You'd probably be asked out first before you could even ask them.'

Harry shook his head. 'I'd rather have another go at the dragon, to be honest.'

Ron scoffed, but did not comment. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw him scanning the common room, as though looking for someone; but then, when he thought no one was watching, Ron chanced a glance at the bushy-haired witch sitting next to them.

Despite the rather dire situation he found himself in, Harry could not help but smile a little: it was no surprise that Ron would want to ask Hermione to the ball. Any idiot with half a brain, who had been observing them for the last year and a half, would have been able to figure out just how he felt about her. Whether she would accept his request was a different issue – privately, Harry thought she would immediately say yes – but it was blatantly obvious.

The small smile slipped off his face, however, as he stared into the roaring fire in front of him. He had no idea who _he_ was going to ask – frankly, if it had not been for the fact that he was school champion, he would not have even dreamt of attending the ball in the first place – but Fred was right. He did need to get a move on, even if it was three weeks away.

Any further musings on who he could potentially take as a date to the ball were broken by loud cheers and applause from his fellow Gryffindors – the Weasley twins had just demonstrated the Ton-Tongue Toffee with the help of an unwitting Dennis Creevey, whose tongue was now more than a foot long and lolling about on the floor. Within seconds, however, Fred had performed the counter-charm, and Dennis – his tongue back to normal size once more – joined in laughing along with the rest of the excitable crowd.

'Ton-Tongue Toffee!' roared George to the twittering students around him, Fred, and Lee Jordan. 'Our very first invention – six Sickles a-piece!'

The distraction proved to be a bit of a godsend – Harry barely thought about the ball for the rest of the evening. It was only after dinner, when they were back in their dormitories and getting ready for bed, that the topic was broached upon once again by Seamus.

'Got any ideas for the ball then?'

Dean and Neville shrugged, and Ron shook his head, although it was a little too quick for Harry's liking. It was only a few seconds later that he realised that everyone else was staring at him, evidently waiting for his answer.

'Oh – erm…' he said, 'I dunno. Still got three weeks, anyway.'

'Have you decided then?' Neville asked Seamus, as he pulled on his pyjamas.

'Yeah,' said Seamus with a grin. 'Lavender.'

Neville raised his eyebrows, while Dean wolf-whistled suggestively. Ron was smirking as he shook his head and changed into his pyjamas.

The lights in the dormitory lanterns went off soon after that, which was their cue to use their wands to clamber into bed without knocking anything over. The room was soon filled with the snores of Ron and Neville, and the slow, heavy breathing of Dean and Seamus. Harry, however, lay awake for a long while, his mind repeating the question that had bothered him since that Transfiguration class.

 _Who am I going to ask to the Yule Ball?_

As though in response, the image of a blonde-haired girl, with mesmerising sapphire eyes, a small nose, and a cute, round face adorned with an enchanting smile, arose in his mind.

He could not help grinning goofily at the image, but it was almost immediately followed by a rather audible groan.

 _ **I'm doomed.**_

 _Yes, I suppose you are._

It was a very long time before Harry finally got to sleep that night.

* * *

'Well, that certainly wasn't the worst test we could have had. Although, I suppose I could have answered question three in a little more detail, I don't think I –'

'Trace, do us a favour, and shut up.'

Tracey glared at Blaise, but fell silent at once.

They had just finished their last Potions lesson of the term. Professor Snape, true to his word, had set them all a test on poison antidotes. Judging by the reactions of most of the students, it had not been an easy test – most of them were sporting dishevelled and confused looks as they exited the classroom.

'What an absolute _nightmare_!'

'I didn't even know what the answer to question six was, did you?'

'Forget question six – what was question four even all about?'

Daphne smirked to herself as these comments – and more – echoed in the corridor around her. Snape had spared no one – even the Slytherins were surprised at the level of difficulty of the questions. Their Head of House had claimed that this was the level of question they could expect for their O.W.L.s, which Daphne highly doubted: the model question papers which she had flipped through in the library were relatively easier as compared to this.

Nevertheless, she had studied rather diligently for the test, and had consequently performed rather well – in her opinion, at least. Even without Snape's favouritism, she was reasonably confident of getting at least an E, if not an O.

Her eyes roamed over to land on her two friends: Tracey appeared to have won her argument with Blaise, and was now rather animatedly discussing the question paper with him. She inwardly laughed as Blaise met her eyes, and then looked up theatrically with an expression of despair, as though praying for someone above to save him from Tracey's clutches. She was grateful that Tracey had not dragged her into the conversation – despite her pride at her performance, she was in no mood to discuss the paper.

Not when things were not normal.

She snapped her eyes to the door of the Potions classroom, just in time to see the boy with the messy, jet-black hair, and round-rimmed glasses, step out into the corridor, along with the bushy-haired girl and the redheaded boy. Weasley and Granger appeared to be in animated conversation – funnily enough, from a distance, it seemed rather similar to the argument Blaise and Tracey had been having earlier.

That did not matter to her, anyway. Her only concern was Potter – and why he had been acting so… _odd_.

There was no other way to describe it: for the last two weeks, Potter had been acting very differently towards her. There were days where his eyes would light up when they caught sight of each other, but on other days, he seemed to barely acknowledge her presence. It was as though, on those days, he was merely waving at her out of formality and necessity, instead of enthusiasm.

She had no idea what had happened to him: the frequent change in his behaviour reminded her of those Muggle devices Tracey had told her about – switches. She did not have the opportunity to speak to him about it either – where could she, with all her House-mates hovering around her all the time? Even now, most of the Slytherins were waiting in the corridor for the last few House-mates to exit the Potions classroom, so that they could return to their common room together. Their chance encounter outside the dragon enclosure before the first task had been an honest fluke; since then, neither of them had had the chance to meet up privately – just the two of them.

She supposed she could attribute it to the attitude of the members of her House – most, if not all, were inherently hostile towards all Gryffindors, and would immediately fend off any approach from any member of the Lion House. Potter, despite his supposed courage and bravery, would not have considered approaching her to talk to her separately.

Especially when Draco Malfoy was around.

Daphne's eyes fell on the blonde boy, standing a few feet away from her, with his two boulder-shaped bodyguards Vincent and Gregory on either side of him. He had a rather haughty expression on his face as he nonchalantly lolled against the wall of the corridor. A quick glance around her told Daphne that he was waiting for Pansy Parkinson to join him.

Daphne did not consider Pansy as a friend now – the two girls had had a very frosty, formal relationship since their first year at Hogwarts. Anyone who had watched Pansy closely over the years would have figured out the reason behind the friction: Pansy absolutely envied anyone who was prettier or more beautiful than her. Daphne, rather unfortunately in this situation, was blessed with stunning natural beauty, so much so that Pansy began imitating her fashion choices, in the hopes of achieving the same results.

Sadly – and rather fortunately, in Daphne's opinion – it seemed to have quite the opposite effect on her: where make-up and fashionable clothes only accentuated Daphne's radiance, it dimmed whatever beauty Pansy did have in the first place. Soon enough, the rest of the Slytherins caught on to Pansy's actions, and began taking the mickey out of her for it. Not in person, of course, and certainly not to her face – the Parkinsons were rather influential, just like the Malfoys and Warringtons – but it was quite common to see people stifling their giggles at Pansy's dressing choices, or whispering snide remarks about her after she had left the room.

Pansy's envy also seemed to stem from the fact that Draco had been obsessed with Daphne – again, mainly due to her looks. The former girl had always harboured a dream of ending up as the next Lady Malfoy, and seeing that glorious vision shattered by the presence of her, Daphne, had caused Pansy to behave rather unpleasantly towards Daphne. It had culminated in that infamous incident during DDT, when Daphne had made her position perfectly clear to the younger Parkinson heiress.

Since then, Pansy had chosen to wisely avoid interactions with Daphne in private, while restricting herself to only the bare necessary formalities in public. It was an unwritten rule in Slytherin House that even if you had issues with other House-mates, they were never displayed in public; the much-maligned House of Hogwarts needed its members to present a united front to the rest of the school.

Things were different this year, however. The choice of Cassius Warrington as school champion meant that Slytherins needed to stick together even more than ever – but things were not exactly going to plan. Warrington's rather friendly camaraderie with Potter – as the two school champions – and his refusal to take the ' _Potter Stinks_ ' badge made by Draco had caused a slight shift in the dynamics of the House. Now, with Potter having performed so well in the first task, there were more than a handful of Slytherins who were beginning to believe what Warrington had insisted right at the start of the Tournament: Potter had not entered into it of his own free will.

 _United front be damned._

Daphne watched as Pansy exited the classroom and made a beeline for Draco; she grabbed his arm in a rather possessive manner, and looked around, as though challenging anyone else to do the same to him. There was also the rather large hint of smugness on her face: clearly, she felt extremely important on being the girl on Draco's arm.

Daphne sighed inwardly. Pansy Parkinson had not been like this when they had been growing up. Sweet, kind, and rather caring, Pansy had been a charming young girl with whom Daphne enjoyed spending time. Granted, her father had been a Death Eater, but her mother had looked to make sure that his activities would not interfere or influence their daughters' upbringing. Mrs Parkinson's views on this issue were quite like those of Mrs Narcissa Malfoy – their children were not to be tainted by the remnants of their father's dark pasts.

And so, Pansy and Iris Parkinson, along with Daphne and Millicent Bulstrode, had been quite inseparable before Hogwarts. It was also no secret that the Parkinsons wanted Pansy and Draco to get together at some point in time – there had been negotiations and discussion on the issue in the past – but nothing had been finalised. Unfortunately, Pansy had grown up with dreams and fantasies of being the next Mrs Malfoy – Narcissa's regal looks and aristocratic bearing had only increased her desire.

When Draco instead became fascinated with Daphne during school, Pansy had considered it as betrayal of the highest level. Friendship broken, she had taken recourse to ridiculing everything Daphne said or did; when that did not work, she began imitating and copying her. One by one, things slowly got out of hand, until that one evening…

Daphne sighed quietly again. At least Pansy was happy now, with Draco accepting her advances and opening up to her. He was even taking her to the Yule Ball as his date – a fact which Pansy had gushed about for two hours to Millicent in the girl's dormitories.

Speaking of the ball…

Daphne had let out the most exasperated and irritated, yet silent, groan, when the Yule Ball had been announced by Professor Snape in the Slytherin common room two weeks ago; she had never been too fond of large social events like dances and parties, instead preferring small get-togethers with her group of friends. Her family's standing in the wider society, however, demanded that she attend such events – the prim and proper heiress of the Greengrass family. Despite her dislike, they were at least bearable to a certain extent, thanks to the presence of her parents, and her younger sister, Astoria.

This time though, there would be no parents to 'protect' her, nor would her sister be around to accompany her – unless she was asked to the ball by an older student. Daphne deemed that scenario to be quite unlikely to take place – Astoria was only a second-year student, and was hardly at an age to attend a huge social event on her own, with teenagers and other adults around her.

So no – Daphne had no viable 'shield', so to speak, from any of the lecherous stares, or the constant badgering, by boys wishing to go with her to the ball. But she ultimately had to attend it – her father had made it quite clear, in his last letter to his daughters, that she was to be present at the ball. And that meant she needed a date.

Daphne had never dated anyone in her life – and for good reason: most boys who had approached her rarely cared about her as a person, and were instead interested only in her looks and fashion sense. A 'trophy partner', as Tracey and Blaise had put it rather succinctly: unfortunately, most boys were only looking for that from her. Her refusal to date these boys, combined with their thick-headedness, had resulted in more than a few 'incidents': these had subsequently established, rather firmly, her reputation as someone not to be trifled with. It was also through these incidents that she had developed her rather infamous stare – she had been told that it resembled a cold, freezing gust of icy wind, one that pierced the resolve of most people who received it. There were barely a handful of people who had experienced the stare, and had not blithered an incoherent response.

Harry Potter was one of them.

Daphne looked over at the boy in question again, who had been joined by the Longbottom boy and two others – Thomas and Finnegan, if she remembered correctly. Potter had, rather smartly in her opinion, opted to hang back instead of joining Granger and Weasley in their discussion regarding the question paper. He had just pushed himself off from the wall of the corridor, against which he had been leaning, when their eyes met.

Emerald-like green eyes locked gazes with striking sapphire-blue eyes.

And almost immediately, Daphne understood the reason behind Potter's unusual behaviour – something that made her, rather surprisingly, blush slightly.

 _He wants to ask me._

His eyes were no longer lit up, like they had occasionally been, nor were they dull and slightly lifeless when he considered it a chore to wave at her in response. They were…filled with something else – something she could not quite place: was it desire? If so, what for – to ask her to the ball?

Even if it was true, would she even say yes?

Potter was the most unlikely candidate for a date that anyone could have thought of for her…and yet, it just made _sense_. He was, from what she had seen and observed, kind, caring, and sensitive; he was also thoughtful, honest…why was she even going on with a list? Potter as a date made sense to her – especially considering the fact that he was unlikely to be asking her out solely on the basis of her looks, and his desire to have someone beautiful, stunning, and popular, on his arm for a night. His fame was enough for that.

Strangely enough, she did not seem averse to the idea of being Potter's date at all. In fact – and here, her blush betrayed her a bit more – she was ready to go for it.

 _But what about your friends? Your House? Family? Astoria?_

 _ **Since when have you cared what they think?**_

 _This is a big event – it's the Yule Ball! I can't go to the Yule Ball as Harry Potter's date!_

 _ **Why not?**_

 _Did you not hear the reasons just now? There will be too many repercussions from this – it will be too much to handle._

 _ **For him? Or for you?**_

 _Does it matter? Bottom line – I can't go._

… _ **you know you want to, Daphne. You can't deny that to yourself.**_

And despite every conceivable point that the voice of reason sounded out inside her head, she knew – just knew – that she wanted to go with him. And she also knew that he wanted to go with her. The look he was giving her right now was ample proof of that.

It seemed like an eternity had passed – although in reality, it had only been a few seconds – before they broke eye contact; Daphne gazed over the top of the heads of the crowd of Gryffindors, as though looking for something or someone; she was sure Potter was doing the same over the Slytherins' heads.

But as they looked at each other once more – the one last time when no one was looking in their direction, when they usually exchanged their waves – Daphne could see the question in his eyes. The mixture of hope and happiness, with a slight tinge of resignation and defeat.

 _Will you go to the ball with me?_

Convincing herself that it was the right thing to do, she stared at him, without blinking, trying not to let her resolve slip, but also attempting to convey what she wanted to say through her own sapphire eyes…and shook her head, ever so slightly.

 _I want to…but I can't._

At that moment, Daphne hated herself for the brief flash of pain that appeared in Potter's emerald eyes – but it was gone as quickly as it came. Quite expertly, he schooled his expression into one of polite greeting, tilted his head in acknowledgement, turned on his heel, and left.

Every click of his shoes against the stone corridor felt like – dare she think it – an icy stab to her heart.

 _ **I should have said yes.**_

 _You did the right thing, Daphne. Let it go._

Tracey and Blaise never did find out why she became so morose and forlorn even after the end of term.

* * *

 _Well, this is odd._

Cassius stared at the girl in front of him, his expression quite clearly betraying his confusion at the whole situation. He chanced a quick glance around him, but there was no one in the vicinity: evidently, this was not a prank.

That being said, this was certainly _not_ normal.

A normal situation would have been Cassius going up to a girl and asking her to accompany him to the Yule Ball. It would have involved him mustering up that long-buried courage to approach a girl in that manner, and behave like a proper gentleman of the Warrington household. It may have also included a rejection or two, before someone finally accepted his request.

It would not, however, have involved Iris Parkinson walking up to him in the Slytherin common room during lunch time on Tuesday, and _asking him_ if she could be his date to the Yule Ball.

 _You're staring too much._

Cassius averted his eyes from Iris at once, instead focusing on a spot on the wall of the common room just above her head. The almost black stone walls, though slightly rough, seemed to be glinting in the light cast by the round, greenish lamps that hung on chains from the ceiling – they gave an impression of a distant galaxy of stars, twinkling away as they sniggered at his predicament.

Even the portrait of Salazar Slytherin, situated above the elaborately carved mantelpiece, seemed to be mocking him with a sly grin.

 _Great. I'm being laughed at by a portrait of an old man._

Iris' expression had not changed in the minute or so which he had spent in self-contemplation. She continued to look up at him inquisitively, her eyebrows raised as she awaited an answer to her question.

 _What do I tell her?_

Iris Parkinson was, in so many ways, unlike her younger sister – a good thing, in Cassius' honest opinion. Where Pansy was arrogant, self-centred, and rude, Iris was confident, humble, and yet gentle. The ambitious heiress of the Parkinson family was also much better looking than her apparently 'pug-faced' sister – and although even Cassius knew that that was going a tad too far, he had to admit that Iris was, in fact, quite beautiful.

Quite fortuitously, Iris had not been raised with the pretence and airs of an entitled and spoilt pureblood witch. Although they had not been in the same play-group – Iris had rather preferred to be with her sister and her friends – Cassius had heard that she had been quite a charming girl. Oh, there were incidents, of course – a pureblood household was bound to have some of them – but Iris grew from the experiences. By the time she arrived at Hogwarts, most wizarding families knew of Iris Camille Parkinson, and not in a bad way at all.

Her reputation only enhanced as she studied at Hogwarts: Iris was one of the few Slytherin girls who stuck to the House ideals of ambition and desire, with a dash of cunningness that Slytherin himself would have been proud of. The deadly combination of beauty and brains that she possessed made other girls want to be like her, and boys want to court her. Thankfully, she never allowed her fame and intelligence to get to her head: keeping her feet firmly on the ground, Iris worked her way up as one of the top ten students of her year, performing quite well in all of her subjects.

One of her most standout traits was her ability to mingle with everyone, and not appear stand-offish, despite her knowledge. The desire of other girls to imitate her stemmed from admiration and inspiration, rather than jealousy. Iris Parkinson served as a role model for her friends and acquaintances alike, resulting in her being deservedly appointed as a Prefect in her fifth year.

' _The true embodiment of a Slytherin,'_ Snape had said one day – and for the first time in a while, not many disagreed with his statement.

It was with all this in mind that Cassius felt rather justified in questioning her choice of asking him to take her as his date to the Yule Ball. What could Iris Parkinson possibly see in him, Cassius Warrington?

Despite being in almost all the same classes, they had never spent too much time together. The Warrington family's reputation had automatically caused people to believe in his alignment with the Dark Arts; this was only supported, rather oddly in his opinion, by his general outward appearance. The Parkinsons, on the other hand, were known to have publicly renounced the ways of the Dark Lord following his downfall; Philip Parkinson had served time in Azkaban, and was now a well-respected employee of the Ministry – or at least, as respected as a former Death Eater could be.

Mrs Parkinson would have never allowed her daughters to associate with 'known' Death Eater families – the only exception being the Malfoys, who apparently had also renounced the old ways – so Cassius thought his scepticism was rather reasonable.

A sentiment, however, that did not sit well with Iris.

'D'you think I'm joking?' she asked, her soft and rather melodious voice cutting through his thoughts.

'Erm…'

 _Oh, get a grip, Cassius!_

Iris narrowed her eyes ever so slightly, a sign that Cassius immediately recognised from his interactions with other girls and his mother – the ire was building. Such situations usually demanded a pacifier of sorts – either an acceptance to what the woman was saying, or a change in topic.

Cassius chose the grey area in between.

'Why me?'

To his surprise, Iris' eyes softened, and she let out a slight giggle; it immediately put his senses on alert for a prank. No one giggled in a serious situation like this.

'Well…' she said, still smiling, 'for one, you're not like the other boys.'

It was Cassius' turn to arch his eyebrow in surprise. What was that supposed to even mean?

She must have noticed it, because she continued to explain, 'I mean, most boys would have been dying to take me to the ball. In fact, I've already had to turn down every boy from our year and the seventh years – most of them seemed too eager for my liking.'

Cassius knew what she was talking about: Slytherin House had been abuzz with the question as to who could take Iris Parkinson to the ball. In fact, the only other person topping her in the rumour charts was Daphne Greengrass. The sixth and seventh year boys' dormitories had been filled with nothing but each person's desire to have Iris on his arm, and the laughter of everyone else as the said person was turned down by her.

Cassius also noticed the humility with which she told him about her popularity – it was without the stuck-up air of a narcissist, nor was it with the exaggerated 'why me?' expression that everyone else portrayed. Her manner of speaking – frank and factual – impressed him.

'So I'm the last one left?' said Cassius with a grin, trying to make it sound like a throwaway joke.

It seemed to work: Iris smiled a bit wider, and her dark brown eyes sparkled. 'Yes, well, you're my last hope, Cassius. I implore you to save the damsel in distress!'

They both chuckled at that – his deep voice in a rather appropriate contrast to her gentle trill. The irony of her statement was not lost on Cassius, however: if anyone needed saving, Iris Parkinson was definitely not that person.

They quietened down, the ice broken and a relatively easy camaraderie established between them, but the question still lingered. Cassius was not entirely convinced that she had given him the full reason for her to ask him.

Iris sighed, evidently recognising the elephant in the room. 'I know you've been dealing with a lot of things lately, Cassius. Your selection as the Hogwarts champion has not helped in lessening that load. I just…' She paused for a bit. 'I meant what I said – you aren't like the other boys. You're not the typical heir to a pureblood family, aren't you? I've seen you eschew the mania of pureblood superiority, what with your help to Muggle-born and half-blood Slytherins, your silent campaign against the outdated and ridiculous beliefs spouted out by the dimwits of our House –' Cassius gave a slight snigger at that '– and your improvement as a person as a whole.

'I'm like you, Cassius. I don't believe in any of it, either. The whole pureblood mania is bollocks, and needs to be stopped before it causes further damage to us, and Hogwarts too. I asked you to the Yule Ball because I wanted to talk to you about all of this, and join you.

'I want to help.'

Cassius had been a little astonished when Iris had spoken about his 'awakening', and even more when she said she was like him. But the most profound impact on him came from her last statement…one which touched him deeply, and invoked memories of a desperately suppressed past.

'I want to help…'

* * *

' _I want to help.'_

 _Cassius gave her a pained look._

' _You can't help me,' he said, hoping that she would understand. 'No one can.'_

' _There has to be a way!' And this time, her voice grew louder with every word, until she yelled out that last one into his face. Her own tear-streaked one looked extremely pale, as though she was about to collapse in a dead faint, even as the opals around her neck glinted in the weak sunlight._

' _I wish there was,' said Cassius, his voice breaking – not unlike his heart. Every word he had spoken up till then felt like a suicidal stab to it. 'Believe me, I wish there was –'_

'No!'

 _Just over a year of Quidditch training and games had honed his reflexes surprisingly well: he caught his companion just in time before she fell, evidently from shock, and held her close to his chest. Her sobs pierced him like nothing had ever done before – he hated seeing her cry, and felt absolutely horrible that this time, he was the cause for it._

' _No, Cassius, no…' mixed with 'I won't leave you…' were the only words that he could make out from the muffled cries against his chest; she gripped his robes tighter as he drew her closed, both arms wrapped around her back in a protective embrace._

 _He wanted to comfort her…wanted to tell her that everything would be alright, that everything would return to normal – but how could he lie? How could he reassure her of a future that he knew would never happen – one that could never exist? What hope and faith could he offer to her, when he had none himself?_

 _Cassius was not one to cry often, but the tears fell freely this time – one salty drop after another, until he could control them no longer; he buried his face into her soft hair, inhaling its scent as he gasped for breath after every choked sob, trying so hard to commit it to memory…_

 _Was this what it was supposed to feel like? Was it supposed to be this painful – this horrible? He had heard stories of the terrible power it had – what it could make people do or not do, promise or not commit…how it could make people feel… Surely, love could not be this hurtful – it was love, after all, so how could it?_

 _What did he know of love, anyway? He was too young, too innocent in the world, to be worthy of feeling such emotions – apparently, love was choosy, and would not go near young men who were not eligible to experience it…_

 _But they were wrong, he thought fiercely, as he clutched her robes just as tightly, they were all wrong; he had experienced it, had fallen into it, and was now being forced to get out of it, because of something he knew was not true – something that could never be true…_

'Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments…'

 _But impediments had come; they had been admitted, in a manner so cruel, so cold, that the consequences of it all were too severe to bear – they were forced to be apart, to step away; it was a superficial reason, of course – but what choice did they have?_

'Love's not Time's fool…'

 _He knew he would have to let go of her completely – have to move on – but like all things in this world, it would be easier said than done…but he would never forget her…_

 _And that was his promise – a dying man's wish, some would call it, even if it was not literally true – but it was a promise to a kindred soul: one who understood him, who valued him –_

 _Who loved him._

'But bears it out even to the edge of doom…'

 _This felt like his doom – like the ground was slipping away from underneath him; from a solid, firm standing, he was going to have to tread water in unknown oceans, desperately attempting to stay afloat in the stormy seas, all without his anchor…_

' _I'm so sorry, Sophie.'_

* * *

'Are you okay, Cassius?'

The gentle voice of Iris Parkinson broke through his melancholy thoughts; Cassius had to blink furiously at least twice to refocus his attention on the conversation at hand. Slowly, the scene in his mind evaporated – his eyes were now staring at the still-twinkling wall of the Slytherin common room.

It took him a few moments to realise that his vision had also become slightly blurry: the memory of that last evening with her had caused him to tear up – again.

He tried to speak, but he somehow knew that his voice would be too choked up to get a coherent word out. He would have wanted to say 'yes' – that he was fine – but it would have been a blatant lie. He was most certainly not fine, and there was no need for him to act macho around anyone, and Iris Parkinson even less so.

He shook his head. Thankfully, Iris seemed to understand almost immediately.

'It's alright,' she said softly, even as Cassius bit his lip to cease its quivering. 'Whatever happened, it will be fine.'

Cassius needed a few more moments to regain a semblance of control over his emotions: it had been a long time since he had permitted himself to think about her, and that evening. The barriers within his heart had been built over a long and arduous year; he did not want to undo all of his efforts in a flash.

 _It's better this way._

 _ **It doesn't seem like it, though.**_

 _Don't worry. It will be._

* * *

With term having ended, the common rooms of the Houses of Hogwarts were – unusually for a winter break – packed to the brim. The upcoming Yule Ball had convinced everyone upwards of fourth year – and a few lucky younger students who had been asked to attend the ball by their seniors – to stay back at Hogwarts for Christmas, giving an impression that classes were still taking place.

The result of all of this, however, was that Cassius had not yet found an appropriate time to speak to Iris. His mini emotional meltdown in front of her had ended in him excusing himself to his dormitory, where he spent the next two hours forcing his mind to stop replaying that evening from more than a year ago. He was extremely grateful to Iris, who did not question him about anything at that time.

He knew he owed her an explanation, though. He was not sure why, to be honest – they had barely interacted in classes and outside, save for the occasional greetings and exchange of notes on important topics – but her request to join him and help in convincing others of the absurdity of pureblood superiority had him intrigued. Cassius had never thought of doing such a thing in the first place – he was content with his own 'awakening' and understanding of the truth – but Iris was right: it was important, and had to be done before Slytherin House and the rest of Hogwarts crumbled under it.

Also, having Iris Parkinson as a date to the Yule Ball was definitely a plus point.

The task of finding Iris and accepting her request was easier said than done, however. With the lack of classes, and the cold weather outside the castle, most of its occupants – including Iris – chose to remain indoors; more often than not, this was in the common room, where almost everyone else could be seen lounging about, or, in some extreme cases, finishing off their holiday homework in advance.

Cassius did not want to embarrass himself by approaching Iris in full public view – there were bound to be catcalls, wolf-whistles, and almost certainly a round of booing and hissing directed towards him. The vitriol was likely to be aimed at Iris as well – which was probably why she chose an empty common room as the setting for her initial request.

Then again, they were both sixth year students, with plenty of shared classes between them. Asking her for help on a subject that he was known to be weak in, and getting her alone to discuss this, seemed as good an option as any.

And so it was that Cassius found himself walking to the Hogwarts library on a bleary Tuesday morning, two weeks before the Yule Ball on Christmas Day. He had spotted Iris heading to the library from the Entrance Hall ten minutes ago, a stack of books in her hands. It was the perfect place to talk to her about it – the library would afford them the privacy they would need, while also ensuring that, in case things went south, he would not be subject to yells and screams from her.

While he highly doubted that the last situation would arise, it was always good to address every possible outcome.

The library was, as usual, very silent, save for the occasional scraping of chairs, scratching of quills against parchment, and the quiet murmurs of students as they whispered away. Cassius walked past the tall windows on the south side – currently depicting the almost empty and definitely chilly grounds of Hogwarts – and the desk of the vulture-like irritable librarian, Madam Pince, to reach the desks at the far side of the library. These desks were the usual haunts for Slytherins and a few extra-studious Ravenclaws, who preferred to stay away from the main crowd in the room and finish their work in peace.

Sure enough, Iris was seated at one of the tables: her dark hair was a little loose from the ponytail she'd pulled it back into – strands of it kept falling and obscuring her vision as she worked on one of the many essays they had been asked to complete over the break. Cassius had to hand it to her – there were not many people who could generate – and maintain – that level of focus and attention required for completing their holiday homework, even as the rest of the school became caught up in the festivities.

His footsteps must have caught her attention, for she looked up as he approached. Her expression, which a moment earlier was one of intense concentration, relaxed into an easy-going and friendly smile; her eyes softened, and she gestured for Cassius to take a seat.

'Hey,' said Cassius.

'Hey.'

Silence.

Iris smirked at him. 'Are you proposing to have a silent conversation, then?'

Cassius chuckled. 'Oh yes, I'm quite good at sign language, didn't you know?'

She raised an eyebrow – a challenging sign. 'Prove it, then.'

Cassius grinned. 'I'll try my best to make it simple enough for you to understand,' he said cheekily.

Iris giggled. 'Try me.'

Cassius' grin widened. 'Okay then.' He pointed at her, then raised his hands to mime a ballroom dance – with his left hand holding an imaginary right one, and his right wrapped around a waist – and then pointed at himself.

Iris was now smiling at him – a genuine smile, quite unlike the mocking grin that the portrait of Salazar Slytherin had sported that day. She tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear – the action got Cassius' attention to her earrings: a simple emerald green pendant on either side.

'Took you long enough, Cassius,' she said at last, but there was no mockery in her tone.

'It's a bit difficult to get you alone, to be honest,' he replied. 'I had no intention of embarrassing either of us by having this conversation in public.'

Iris raised an eyebrow, apparently quite impressed with his line of thought. 'Fair enough. I wouldn't have wanted it that way, either.'

'Yes, well…'

Silence fell over them once more. A group of Ravenclaws two tables over got up and left – they now seemed to be the only ones in that corner of the library.

Cassius looked at her.

'Don't even think about it,' she warned, waggling her finger.

'I have no idea what you're talking about,' he said, a little too innocently.

'Yes, and I'm not Iris Parkinson,' she fired back.

'Does that mean I asked the wrong person to the ball? I'm so sorry – that was so stupid of me,' he said with a smirk, and making a show of getting up.

'Alright, sit down,' said Iris, laughing softly. 'You're a prat, you know that.'

'It isn't news to me,' he said, grinning.

Iris reached forward and swatted him on the arm playfully. They lapsed into a comfortable silence once more, as she returned to her essay.

Cassius broke it after a few minutes. 'So…'

She looked up at him. 'Hmm?'

'Erm…' How was he going to tell her this? 'You – erm – you haven't said if you would be coming with me.'

Iris grinned at him. 'I think it's pretty obvious, since I asked you first.'

Cassius stared at her. Iris giggled again.

'Of course I'll go with you, Cassius,' she said. 'Like I said, I did ask you first.'

'Right, yeah,' he said, and he felt an odd sense of relief sweep over him. 'Great, okay then, that's good.'

She poked him with the edge of her quill and bent over her essay once more.

'Also…' began Cassius. 'Thank you.'

Iris looked up at him curiously. 'What?'

'I – thank you. For understanding.'

Her confused expression gave way to another of her brilliant smiles. 'Don't mention it, Cassius. I hope I can help you with whatever it is.'

He nodded, albeit half-heartedly. He doubted if anyone could ever help him in that situation – even he had not been able to help himself, or her, at that time.

'I should go,' he said, after a minute. 'Need to finish some stuff.'

'Oh, okay.' Did she sound slightly – disappointed? He couldn't tell. 'Alright then, I'll see you at the common room?'

'Yeah, alright.'

He stood up to leave, just as she stood up as well. Confused, he watched her step around the desk towards him, only to wrap her arms around him in a gentle hug. He stood there, frozen, unable to react to the embrace – but by the time his brain kicked into gear, she had stepped back.

'It will be fine, Cassius. I promise.'

Her words, thought soft, seemed to carry a ringing tone of confidence and optimism, which instantly rejuvenated him. And despite the logical side of his mind – and a part of his heart too – telling him it would not be fine, he felt quite reassured by what she had told him.

He gave her a slight smile, muttered a hurried 'Thanks', turned around, and began walking towards the exit.

It was as he walked past the Astronomy section in the library that he heard two people having a whispered conversation. This was quite normal – Madam Pince was very strict on the noise one was allowed to make in the library – except for the owners of the voices.

'I haff been vanting to talk to you for a long time.'

Cassius froze at that statement. That was Viktor Krum – but who was he talking to? And what on earth was he talking about?

'Really? Why now, then?'

The voice sounded familiar – he had heard her before, which meant she was definitely a Hogwarts student – but he could not quite place it.

'I did not haff the – vot do you call it – courage, before.'

'Oh.'

There was silence. Cassius realised just then that he had been standing in the same position, in plain view of anyone who was looking to access the Astronomy section for books. He quickly stole into the next line of shelves, taking care that he could not be seen by either Krum or the other girl.

'So, erm…did you want to talk to me about something?'

'Uh…' faltered Krum. Cassius wondered what was making the internationally famous Quidditch star sound this nervous and unsure. 'I vos vanting to ask you if you vould like to – uh –'

The girl did not respond; Cassius imagined she was wearing an expression of polite puzzlement, whoever she was.

Krum's voice dropped even lower in volume. 'If you vould like to go to the Yule Ball, with me.'

Cassius almost jumped up in shock. He had certainly not expected this to be the topic of conversation to be overhearing – especially with Durmstrang's champion involved. He glanced around, but there were no gaps between the shelves through which he could look through to see who the girl was.

There was silence at the end of the conversationalists. Nearby, another set of chairs scraped the floor, followed by the sound of footsteps fading off as they proceeded to the exit.

The girl finally seemed to have regained the use of her voice – Cassius imagined she would have been stunned at the question from Krum. 'Oh! Erm – I –'

And that instant, Cassius knew she was going to turn him down.

'I'm so sorry, but I've already said I'd go with someone else.'

The girl fell silent. Cassius could not hear any more sounds from their end – had they slouched off to another, more private, corner to discuss? Then he figured he would have heard Krum's footsteps – there was no way that a person that big could be completely silent.

After about another minute, Krum finally spoke.

'I see, okay. Vell, there was no harm in asking, I am thinking.'

'I'm really sorry, Mr Krum –'

'Please, call me Viktor,' said Krum; his voice sounded a bit more jovial and normal now. 'It is alright, do not apologise. I vos a little late, I am thinking.'

The girl gave a slightly shaky laugh, as though she was not sure if she could laugh at that or not.

'May I haff von dance with you at the ball, at least?'

'Oh!' came the flustered reply. 'Well, yes, I suppose that would be alright.'

'That is good, then,' said Krum. He paused for a bit, and then said, 'Who are you going with?'

'Erm – I'm going with Ron Weasley – you know? The red-haired boy, my best friend?'

 _It's Hermione Granger!_

Cassius could not believe how he had not recognised her voice earlier; then again, he had only heard her speak a few times this year, and never to him at all. But this was astonishing, to say the least: Viktor Krum had asked Hermione Granger to the Yule Ball, and she'd turned him down! All because she was already going with Ron Weasley!

Cassius almost felt like laughing out loud – the situation was too surprising and hilarious. Plenty of girls would have desperately wanted to be in Granger's position of being asked to the ball by Krum – and yet, she had said no. He had to hand it to Granger, though: she had let Krum down pretty well, and had even promised him a dance at the ball. He doubted if Weasley would agree to that, but he did not see any harm in it. Krum was unlikely to do anything in a single dance, and Granger would definitely not go behind Weasley's back.

Speaking of which, he was not quite sure why Granger had agreed to accompany Weasley, of all people, to the Yule Ball. Then again, he did not claim to know either of them, or the dynamics of their friendship. In fact, as he finally exited the library a good two minutes later, he figured the two of them may have agreed to go to the ball just as friends.

 _To each his own. I suppose._

 _ **At least you've got your date. Be happy about that.**_

With that comforting thought, Cassius made his way through the corridors in the direction of the Slytherin common room. He spotted Fleur Delacour as he crossed the Entrance Hall – she was surrounded by a number of boys, all of whom seemed to be gazing at her with awe-struck expressions. He resisted the urge, yet again, to laugh out loud – this time, scornfully; they were nowhere close to getting Fleur Delacour as a date as he was to solving the clue within the golden egg.

As he began descending the stone steps from the Entrance Hall to the dungeons, a distinctive clunking noise reached his ears from behind him. He turned in time to see Professor Moody limping towards him, his wooden leg and staff making alternating sounds against the marble floor.

'Mr Warrington,' growled Moody.

Cassius' suspicions towards Moody had not changed since the beginning of the Tournament, when he had dramatically announced himself in the chamber off the side of the Great Hall. There was still something _off_ about this Moody that told him to be on constant alert. His seemingly off-hand comment about Potter's inclusion in the Tournament still rang a few alarm bells for Cassius:

' _Maybe someone's hoping Potter is going to die for it.'_

 _Too much foreknowledge…_

'I'd like to have a word, Warrington,' said Moody.

Despite his inner voice telling him that it was a stupid idea, and that he should not be trusting Moody, Cassius nodded. At Moody's request, he led them down the steps to the dungeons, and entered an empty classroom. Once inside, Moody stumped over to the front desk and sat down behind it with a groan, while also indicating Cassius to have a seat. His magical eye spun around in its socket, before finally focusing on the closed door of the classroom.

'You did quite well in the first task, Warrington,' began Moody, stretching his wooden leg out on the desk in front of him. 'Inspired strategy – you'd make a fine Auror one day.'

Cassius nodded his head, but did not say anything. He could not fathom why Moody had chosen to congratulate him about his performance in the first task right now, of all times. What was he playing at?

His suspicion must have shown on his face, however; Moody's lopsided mouth stretched into a grin, revealing several missing teeth. 'I'm not going to jinx you, Warrington – you needn't be worried.'

Cassius eyed him carefully. 'You'll forgive me, Professor, if I am a little apprehensive based on what I've heard,' he said curtly.

'I would've thought you daft if you weren't, Warrington,' replied Moody. 'Constant vigilance, it's what I always tell everyone… Shame you aren't in my class though – you would have been a good student.'

'I'm not sure I have the required temperament and skill, sir,' said Cassius with a shrug.

'Nonsense,' growled Moody dismissively. 'Thinking on your feet is an important skill for Defence Against the Dark Arts, and I'd say you did that pretty damn well with that Swedish Short-Snout.'

Cassius allowed a hint of a smile to ghost across his face; despite everything, being praised on his Defence-related skills by an ex-Auror was not something that happened every day. 'Thank you, Professor.'

'You deserve it,' said Moody, before groaning again and clutching his wooden leg. 'Damn this thing…' he muttered.

A rather awkward silence lapsed between them, as Moody massaged his thigh and hamstring, and Cassius looked on. He had never found out – and for that matter, no one had seemed to know – what had happened that caused Mad-Eye Moody to lose an entire leg. Especially when there were magical healing methods that could have prevented the loss of a leg – unless it was completely blown up by a Dark curse.

Before he could muster the courage to ask, however, Moody spoke again.

'Done something about your egg, then?'

Cassius shook his head. Truth be told, he had not even thought about the golden egg until just before in the Entrance Hall, when he had spotted Fleur and the group of boys around her. His initial attempts to solve it had almost caused him partial deafness, and, in one unfortunate second year girl's case, ruptured eardrums. Madam Pomfrey had fixed her up in a tick, but he had immediately shoved the egg into his trunk, where it had laid, quite forgotten, until today.

'It keeps making this horrible screechy, wailing sound whenever I open it,' he explained. 'I can't seem to find anything that could possibly change it.'

Moody's normal eye looked at him intently.

'Have you heard of the four basic elements, Warrington?'

This question was so out of the blue that it took a few moments for Cassius to realise what he had been asked.

'F-four elements?' he queried, nonplussed. 'I'm afraid I don't quite understand, Professor –'

'You're smarter than this, Warrington, or so I've heard,' growled Moody. 'Don't ruin my first impression of you.' The electric blue magical eye swivelled to stare at Cassius, before spinning back to focus on the door. 'Know the four basic elements?'

'Erm… well, there's earth, fire, air, and…'

Moody tilted his head, as if to say, 'Go on.'

'And…water,' finished Cassius. 'But I still don't –'

'Which element did you have to contend with in the first task, Warrington?

Cassius winced involuntarily at the memory. He knew perfectly well what Moody was talking about – there was no way he could forget the searing pain he had felt on his leg.

'Fire,' he said softly.

'Yes, fire,' said Moody. 'So we could rule that one out, can't we?'

Cassius nodded, even as his brain slowly began to connect the dots. The first task involved fire, so, going by what Moody said, the second task could involve any of the remaining three.

'You've already told me that the egg doesn't make sense when opened in normal conditions,' stated Moody.

Cassius nodded again. With the egg only screeching and wailing when opened normally, that would rule out the 'air' element, too. That left only two others – and he doubted if it would make much of a difference if he smeared mud on the egg, or buried it somewhere on the grounds.

So, technically, that meant he needed…

'Well, I can't say you aren't smart, boy,' said Moody two minutes later. 'I'm glad I didn't need to spend the whole day down here.'

Cassius chuckled, but his next question was with a serious expression on his face. 'Won't this be considered as cheating, sir?'

Moody eyed him closely. 'I'll counter that with a question of my own: don't you think Miss Delacour and Mr Krum would have gotten help from their Heads?'

Cassius had to admit that Moody had a point; cheating was, after all, a significant part of the Triwizard Tournament. Each school would want to prove that they were the most magical of the lot, and would use any means to achieve that goal – even if it involved breaking the rules. In fact, it was an unwritten rule that the other rules of the Tournament were meant to be broken.

He nodded at Moody's question in understanding; but just then, he realised the overall situation: he knew how to solve the egg, and so did, he presumed, Fleur and Krum. That left Potter as the only one in the unknown.

Ought he to tell him the trick? His Slytherin side would not have even considered it – self-preservation was always the first priority.

But Potter had helped him with the first task, had told him about the dragons and what they possibly needed to do; without Potter's tip-off, he would have been a goner. As it was, while his plan had involved thinking on his feet once he had picked the tiny model dragon, it was not too far from his original strategy – although the Transfigured dog may not have lasted as long as the enlarged Swedish Short-Snout.

Nevertheless, all things said and done, Potter had helped him – which meant he owed a debt to the Gryffindor. That thought immediately triggered a memory with his father from long ago:

' _A Warrington always pays his debts. Never forget that, Cassius.'_

He got up from his seat, thanked Professor Moody for his advice, and exited the dungeon classroom. As he approached the Slytherin common room, he let out a heavy sigh.

As if getting a date for the Yule Ball had not been tedious enough, he now had to tell Potter to take a bath with the golden egg.

 _He'll think I'm insane._

 _ **When are you not?**_

 _Oh, shut up._

* * *

She stared out of the window of the common room into the slightly murky waters of the Black Lake. Schools of fish swam about past her; in the distance, she could just spot the greenish tail of a merman flitting through clumps of weed. The disturbance caused the resident Grindylows to rise from the weed and shake their fists at the intruder, before sinking back into their slumber.

She sighed again, for what probably was the tenth time that day, as she tore her eyes away from the window and attempted to focus on her Transfiguration essay. She wanted to finish it as soon as possible – preferably before the week leading up to Christmas – so that she could enjoy the festivities in Hogwarts for the first time in her life.

Okay, she was being a little untrue about her intentions: she really wanted to finish it so that she could enjoy the Yule Ball, and possibly the after effects of it, without the worry of homework hanging around her neck.

 _You'll need a date first._

Daphne wanted to strangle that inner voice of hers that kept passing snide remarks about her lack of a date to the Yule Ball. Her ire towards that voice was matched in intensity only by the sadness she felt about rejecting the one boy who she would have loved to go with.

 _You did the right thing, Daphne._

 _ **Yeah? Do you see me having a date yet?**_

 _Would you rather have gone with Potter, and invited the ire of every single person of your House?_

Daphne had to concede that point to the inner voice: going as Potter's date would have had unimaginable consequences for her, and for him too. Given the current climate, accepting his request was completely out of the question, despite what she really wanted.

And yet, four days later, she still did not have a date for the ball. No other boy seemed to have the courage to approach her and ask her hand for the event: it appeared that they were all quite afraid of her reaction to being asked out. Her stare and biting responses were not to be taken lightly, or so she had been told.

She had ultimately resigned herself to the fact that, even though there was more than a week left for the ball, she would probably be going without a proper date. While she was not bothered by the prospect, she was slightly apprehensive of her parents' reaction to it. The fact that she had had a chance to go with a boy – someone she would have loved to go with – but did not, only served to hurt her more.

She sighed again, just as the entrance to the Slytherin common room opened, signalling a lull in the general murmur of conversations. Cassius Warrington walked into the room, his gait and facial expression reflecting his happiness at – something. He made his way straight to the corner where his friends, Adrian Pucey and Terence Higgs, were seated. An excited whisper from the Triwizard champion was soon followed by an exchange of high-fives between the three of them.

'Seems like he's got who he wanted to go with,' commented Blaise, who had also witnessed the exchange along with Tracey and her.

Tracey nodded in agreement, but returned to her copy of _Aiming High: A History of the Appleby Arrows_ almost immediately.

Daphne allowed her eyes to linger on the trio a little longer than was strictly necessary; it resulted in Warrington looking over at her, and catching her gaze. She immediately averted her stare to her essay in front of her, but it seemed as though the damage was done.

She noticed Tracey and Blaise looking up to a point behind her; a few moments later, a shadow fell across her essay. She turned around, and came face to face with Warrington and Pucey.

'Greengrass,' said Warrington, rather courteously. Pucey gave her a short nod and – quite surprisingly – a tiny bow. Out of the corner of her eyes, Daphne noticed Blaise raise his eyebrows in mild curiosity.

'Warrington,' she replied. She returned the nod to Pucey, but did not bow, or curtsey, or whatever she was supposed to do in that situation. She was still seated after all – why did she need to curtsey if he had chosen to bow to her?

'Could we have a word?'

Daphne had, over the years, come to rely on her instincts in a number of situations – most of which involved boys and their adventurous streaks. She decided to trust them this time, too.

'Whatever it is, we could discuss it here,' she stated coolly. 'I'm going to be telling Tracey and Blaise about our conversation anyway, so we might as well have it in front of them.'

Warrington looked at Pucey, who shrugged. 'That's fine by us,' said Pucey; Daphne noticed that his voice was quite deep, like a reassuring baritone. 'In which case…' he turned to Blaise and Tracey, 'good afternoon to you two.'

Blaise definitely looked impressed this time, while Tracey was smirking; evidently she knew something that Daphne did not. They quickly returned the greetings to Warrington and Pucey, after which the latter pair turned back to her.

'We wanted to know –' began Pucey, but hastily amended his statement as he dodged an elbow from Warrington, '– I mean, I wanted to know if – erm –'

He faltered slightly. Daphne spotted Tracey grinning widely in Pucey's direction.

'Okay, I'm just going to say it,' he said at last, after a few more stammered attempts. 'Ms Daphne Greengrass, would you do me the honour of accompanying me to the Yule Ball this Christmas Day?'

Tracey let out a giggle – but sounded more like a snort – just as Pucey finished his question. She covered her mouth with her hands, her face going red with embarrassment, but her eyes were sparkling with glee. Blaise, for his part, looked quite amused as well.

Daphne ignored the pair of them. She looked up between Warrington's easy, grinning face, to Pucey's hopeful expression, thinking…

Adrian Pucey was not a bad option at all. In fact, he seemed to fit into most of the requirements her parents would have listed out for a potential date to a ball: pureblood, good family, good-looking, Quidditch player, blonde hair…

Okay, so her parents' list was not exactly sane, but it needed to be satisfied. And Pucey did seem to fit the bill. Tall, handsome, and easy-going, Adrian Pucey would have been the perfect date for any girl wishing to go to the ball. Indeed, Daphne wondered why she had not considered him as an option before.

Her face relaxed into what she felt was a normal smile. 'Yes, I will go with you.'

Pucey – _Adrian_ , she mentally corrected herself – grinned back at her. 'Brilliant, thanks!'

She almost laughed out loud at the change in the expressions of Tracey and Blaise: with their mouths open in shock, both of them looked as though they had been slapped right around their faces.

But as the two sixth years said their goodbyes and returned to sit with Higgs, her heart sank a little. At least, if she had gone alone, she could have had a chance to dance with him. Now, however…

 _I'm so sorry, Harry._


	8. Dances and Dives

**The Other Champion**

 **Chapter 7: Dances and Dives**

* * *

 **Author's Note: A slightly shorter chapter than the previous one. Hope you enjoy reading this chapter, as much as I enjoyed writing it.**

 **Many thanks, once again, to Dorothea Greengrass for beta-reading this chapter.**

* * *

 **Disclaimer: Recognisable portions in this chapter have been taken from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, by J.K. Rowling. I neither own nor intend to make any profit from the use of Harry Potter and the associated characters of the series, in my story.**

* * *

 _ **Previously on "The Other Champion"…**_

… _Tall, handsome, and easy-going, Adrian Pucey would have been the perfect date for any girl wishing to go to the ball. Indeed, Daphne wondered why she had not considered him as an option before._

 _Her face relaxed into what she felt was a normal smile. 'Yes, I will go with you.'_

 _Pucey –_ Adrian, _she mentally corrected herself – grinned back at her. 'Brilliant, thanks!'_

 _She almost laughed out loud at the change in the expressions of Tracey and Blaise: with their mouths open in shock, both of them looked as though they had been slapped right around their faces._

 _But as the two sixth years said their goodbyes and returned to sit with Higgs, her heart sank a little. At least, if she had gone alone, she could have had a chance to dance with him. Now, however…_

I'm so sorry, Harry.

* * *

She was beautiful.

He did not know too much of the types of dress robes that girls usually wore to formal occasions, but even so…

 _Wow._

 _ **You're staring at her.**_

 _I don't care._

 _ **You were completely ticked off with her and her date not fifteen minutes ago.**_

 _Yes, well…_

 _ **You hypocrite.**_

 _Shut up._

His inner voice fell silent, but he could hear the occasional snigger now and then. He firmly ignored it, instead trying to look at this vision before him as discretely as possible, without attracting too much attention.

Her dress was light blue and slim – that was the best description he could come up with. Oh, and it had lace on the upper part, and a ribbon separating the torso and the skirt. She had been wearing a short jacket when she had entered the Great Hall, but she had removed it before stepping onto the dance floor, revealing that it was a sleeveless dress.

His breath caught in his throat as she began dancing with her partner; she looked a bit taller than usual, which he later realised was because of the silver heels she was wearing. How she was able to dance so gracefully in those shoes was beyond him – she looked like an angel. Her skirt flared out as her partner twirled her around to the mournful tune of the Weird Sisters; each time it did, she looked even prettier than the previous time.

They were moving around the dance floor with considerable ease; it was a few moments later that he noticed they were a mere five feet away from where he was seated. His date had disappeared a long time ago – he remembered a boy from Beauxbatons asking for her hand, and she had not returned since then. It did not matter to him – he had not been interested in the ball anyway.

 _ **Not without her, you mean.**_

It had been a long shot, of course, to ask her to the ball. They were in rival Houses after all – a Gryffindor going with a Slytherin was unfathomable to most of the student populace. And given the current climate – with champions from both Houses competing in the Triwizard Tournament – it would have been folly for them to be going together.

There was also the impact on her to be considered: while he would have had the protection of his Gryffindor House-mates in whatever the Slytherins tried to do, he doubted that she would ever experience a similar show of loyalty from her own House. She was, in all respects, an outcast, as it is. Going with him would have got her ostracised even more. Her name – and her family's reputation, for that matter – would have been dragged into the mud with that kind of association.

In a way, it was a good thing that she had chosen to go with someone from her own House. The boy was good-looking, tall – he even had almost the same blonde hair as her. They seemed like a perfect match. And she seemed happy to be with him – giggling and laughing as he spun her around, blushing lightly as he seemed to complement her, taking his hand as he led her out onto the dance floor with the regal air of a proper gentleman…

He had felt jealous at first – oh yes, who would not have? For all intents and purposes, this Pucey had stolen the girl he had wanted to go with; the flipside was, even she had agreed to go with him. When he had spotted her on his arm, it was as though his insides had twisted into something large and scaly – the monster inside was roaring in denial at the sight before him. Did she not know how he felt about her? Did she not think about him before choosing to go with Whats-his-face?

But as the evening progressed, the beast inside his chest settled down as though in slumber – or was it defeat? He did not know. The logical part of his mind – the one that Hermione said he rarely used at times – got to work, and he finally, albeit grudgingly, understood her predicament.

She could not have said yes – not without inviting snide comments, rude remarks, and even a certain level of retribution from her House-mates. There would have been an uproar – a Slytherin going with Harry Potter? And not just any Slytherin – _Daphne Greengrass_ , no less! What a scandal!

He did not like it – neither did the monster, for that matter – but there was nothing that he could do. Maybe, sometime in the future, when they were not bound by Houses, and petty rivalries, something could happen…

Pucey twirled her around once more – few tendrils of her hair, which had been done up in an elegant knot, bounced off her cheek; a few more locks escaped from behind her ear, curling against her jaw in what he thought was the cutest look she could have.

 _ **You are so smitten.**_

 _Shut up._

He meant to look away, but at that last moment, they spun around again, and she looked beyond the shoulder of Pucey, straight at him. Brilliant sapphire-blue eyes, highlighted by a light pinkish hue, stared right at him – and at that moment, he felt as though he was laying his soul bare for her.

Time lost all meaning at that instant: the Weird Sisters had ceased their performance; the rest of the dancers across the room had stopped moving…and it was just the two of them, staring at each other.

 _I wanted to go with you_ , he said.

 _I wanted to go with you, too_ , she replied. _But I couldn't…_

 _I know…_

She blinked once; the sparkle in her eyes, that had been ever-present during her waltz with Pucey, was now replaced with a look of longing and sadness. And somehow, he knew that his eyes were telling the same story.

The moment ended; the Weird Sisters played the last few notes of the tune, and ended to enthusiastic applause; the remaining couples on the floor stopped dancing – some of them trooped off-stage to different tables where their friends were seated, while others preferred to stay for the next song, in some cases switching partners with their friends.

Harry realised that Daphne was still staring at him over Pucey's shoulder. It took him a few moments to realise that he was staring back at her. Another moment later, and he noticed that Pucey had spotted him.

 _Bugger._

He immediately diverted his eyes away from them, choosing instead to focus on Ron and Hermione stepping off the dance floor on the other side of the Great Hall. A ghost of a smile flitted across his face as he looked at them – despite the frayed neck and sleeves of his dress robes, he was carrying himself with quite some confidence as he led Hermione to grab a couple of Butterbeers from the refreshment counter.

Despite his own – predicament, if one could call it, he was happy for his two best friends. Hermione had accepted almost immediately when Ron had asked her to the ball – thankfully, Fred and George's demonstration that evening had served as a wake-up call for Ron to ask his preferred choice of date at once, and he had promptly done so the next evening, while the three of them had been working in a secluded corner of the Gryffindor common room. Hermione had blushed and nodded, leaving Ron grinning widely like a Cheshire cat, and Harry feeling relatively awkward at the entire situation, but it had turned out rather well.

Ron, to Harry's surprise, knew how to dance – Mrs Weasley had insisted on giving all her children some basic lessons as they grew up – and he taught Harry those moves. Combined with Hermione's knowledge of ballet dancing – which, again, was a surprise to the boys – Harry had managed to acquire a decent skill level for dancing at a ball. Indeed, he would have enjoyed dancing to all the songs played by the Weird Sisters –

If only he had been with the right partner.

Parvati Patil was a great dancer, and a really good-looking girl, but Harry's enthusiasm for the ball had dampened since Daphne's refusal to go with him. As such, despite his best efforts, he found himself unable to generate that requisite enthusiasm for dancing with a girl whom he only asked out as a last resort. And so, rather unfortunately, Parvati had not had the best time as being the date of a Triwizard Champion, and had joined up with another boy as soon as she and Harry had finished the traditional opening dance. He did not blame her in the slightest, later realising that he ought to apologise to her for the less than ideal experience.

So lost was he in his thoughts, that he failed to notice another person sit down next to him at the table, only recognising the presence when that person cleared his throat. Harry turned around curiously, but it was immediately replaced with a slightly guilty look – it was Adrian Pucey.

'Lost your date, eh, Potter?'

The guilt evaporated, just as irritation took over; the monster in his chest arose from its temporary slumber to growl menacingly.

'What's it to you?' he sniped back.

Pucey chuckled.

'Relax, Potter, I'm not here to take the mickey out of you.'

'Funny, I don't see any other reason for you to be here.'

He did not know why he was this ticked off by Pucey's presence – the monster inside him was growling so loudly, it was a wonder that no one else could hear it.

'My date asked me to ask you if you'd like a dance. With her, of course,' he added.

'I – what?'

Harry gaped at him. For the second time that evening, everything seemed to be going in slow, or even no motion at all, except for him and his focus – which was currently Adrian Pucey. He knew he must look a right sight – he was aware of his mouth falling open to form a slight 'o', but he did not care. Not when he was not sure if he had heard Pucey correctly.

Pucey's date – Daphne Greengrass – wanted a dance? With him, Harry?

With the same startled expression, he swivelled his head to stare at Daphne, who had remained standing on the dance floor, and was looking over at the two of them with a trace of apprehension on her face.

As though from a great distance, Harry heard the first vestiges of musical notes – the Weird Sisters were starting another, much slower song. He recognised the tune immediately – it was one of those that Ron had played while they had been practising in the privacy of the common room.

With what felt like a considerable amount of effort, Harry brought himself back; he looked back at Pucey, who was watching him with a neutral expression on his face.

'She's waiting, you know.'

Harry glanced at Daphne again; she had moved off to the edge of the floor, to avoid other dancers barging into her. Her eyes, which, moments before, had reflected a look of longing, were now shining with – was it hope?

The monster in his chest was roaring at him to get up and join her – but something held him back. He turned back to Pucey. 'Will she be alright?'

Pucey nodded, rather solemnly, in his opinion. 'Don't worry, you two won't be seen.'

Harry raised an eyebrow at that, but did not comment. Daphne's expression, combined with Pucey's reassurance, had convinced him quite enough to go. The fact that Pucey was one of Warrington's friends who had refused to wear the badge before the first task was an added bonus.

Feeling as though his legs were made of jelly, Harry stood up and approached Daphne. The six feet between them seemed to take ages to cover, however; every step he took in his shoes sounded to him like an impending walk to his doom. At every action of his gait, he wondered if he was doing the right thing, and if Daphne would suddenly turn around and leave.

But at last, he was there, in front of her – and at this distance, he was suddenly struck with the realisation of just how mesmerising she looked. Every feature of hers that he had found attractive – her hair, nose, eyes…everything now looked ten times better. Her earrings were simple sapphire studs; an impossibly thin chain hung around a neck, with a teardrop pendant hanging at the end of it, just above the neckline of her dress. His eyes travelled to her face again – she was sporting a light shade of pink lipstick, which made her smile even more pronounced and fascinating.

 _Dear God, she's beautiful._

He dimly noticed a rush of air sweep past him: looking around, he saw Pucey pocketing his wand and grinning at him. The sixth year Slytherin then jerked his head towards the dance floor, as if to say, 'Go on, then.'

He turned back to Daphne; she was now looking up at him – her heels still made her slightly shorter than him – with a gentle, yet brilliant smile.

A part of his brain told him to follow proper etiquette, by bowing to her, then asking her to dance with him; yet, something told him that they were running out of time.

And so, throwing caution to the wind, he wordlessly extended his arm, with his palm facing upwards.

 _Dance with me, Daphne._

A small hand slipped into his; their fingers interlocked, and she squeezed it lightly.

 _Of course, Harry._

Harry had no memory of the music that was being played by the Weird Sisters; he had no clue of who else was on the dance floor; he even had no idea of how long he had danced – slowly revolving on the spot, while occasionally moving a few steps to the left and right.

His only memory was that of Daphne's face as they began to dance: how it had lit up when they started to revolve; the feel of her satin dress against his hand as he held her waist tightly; the way her palm fit so perfectly in his, with the occasional squeeze now and then…

Her wonderful, amazing smile, when she looked up at him as they danced; the look of absolute content as she laid her head against his chest, while the beast inside purred in satisfaction; the softness of her blonde hair as he placed his chin upon it…

Her stunning, sapphire eyes that stared into his own throughout the dance; the way they sparkled with joy as he held her close…

Could she be any more perfect? Could there be any one more perfect than her? He was sure the answers to both were emphatic ' _No!_ 's. It seemed foolish to think of it so soon – he was just fourteen, just into his teens – but he knew, just _knew_ , that she was the one. He doubted if his choice would change in the future – he could, dare he think it, see a life with her…

The Weird Sisters commenced the final section of the song, which he recognised as his cue to prepare himself to step off the dance floor. Harry lifted his chin from her hand; with the pressure lost, she lifted her head as well to look at him. He smiled at her.

'Thank you for this.' And he meant it, in the most sincere way possible.

She smiled back, the lights from above (he did not know where) causing her eyes to dance. 'I had the best dance with you tonight, Harry.'

For some reason, he felt a slight shiver run up his spine as she said his name.

They remained there, together, his arm around her waist, hers resting on his shoulder, and their other hands clasped together. Neither wanted to let go; Harry half-wondered if it was possible to stay that way, forever.

And then, as he continued to stare at her, she closed her eyes, leaned in, and planted a soft – oh, so _soft_ – kiss on his cheek.

The sensation was indescribable – he had never been kissed by anyone before, save for the ones from the Gryffindor Chasers after their win in the Quidditch Final last year – but this was completely different. A slightly tingling, burning sensation spread outwards from where her lips had made contact, all the way around his face; he felt himself going red – and it must have been obvious, for Daphne drew back, looked at him, and giggled.

'You're red as a tomato,' she said, and giggled again.

Harry scowled half-heartedly, but grinned back at her. As her giggles subsided, he decided to take a leap of faith.

Boldly, drawing on whatever reserves of courage he possessed, he leaned it, careful not to bump into her awkwardly; he closed his eyes, and kissed her on her forehead.

He pulled back after a moment, a tan concerned at her reaction – but he need not have been. She looked supremely content at his action; indeed, it seemed as though she would have loved to experience that again and again.

'Thank you, Harry,' she murmured, pulling him into an embrace. She was warm and comforting, like a beacon of light shining out to a ship stranded at sea. At that instant, he felt like everything was going to be alright, even if it did sound outlandish.

They let go of each other, grins on their faces. He noticed a few people coming onto the dance floor, as the band prepared themselves for the next song; recognising it as his cue to leave, he stepped off the floor, gave her a short wave, turned, and headed back to his table.

Pucey looked up at him as he approached. 'I hope you had fun.'

Harry nodded. 'Thank you,' he said sincerely. 'Honestly, I can't thank you enough.'

'Don't mention it,' said Pucey, waving him off. 'You both seem to really like each other.' It was not a question, but Harry nodded all the same.

'Merlin knows how that happened…' muttered Pucey, and Harry grinned at that.

Pucey looked back up at him. 'If and when you two do get together, Potter…' He paused. 'Keep her safe, yeah?'

It sounded like Pucey was giving his silent approval for them, even if they were not technically together. Harry nodded again, silently relieved that he had at least one other person from Slytherin who might stand up for him.

Pucey stood up from his seat, dusting off some unseen lint from his dress robes. 'I'd better return to her – people would question if she'd been left alone for far too long.'

'Yeah, you should,' said Harry, stepping aside to let him pass. 'Thanks,' he said again, as the older Slytherin walked by.

Pucey gave him a sharp nod, and sauntered easily towards Daphne, who looked remarkably different from her visage before her dance with Harry; gone were the lines and creases of worry on her face, replaced by dimples of joy and laughter. He smiled as she greeted Pucey happily, and joined him as he led her off the floor to another refreshment table.

He was still smiling as Ron and Hermione came up to him, the latter fanning herself.

'What are you so happy about?' asked Ron curiously.

Harry shook his head. 'Nothing,' he said mysteriously. He put his arms around their shoulders, 'Let's go eat, shall we?'

* * *

' _An hour long you'll have to look,_

 _And to recover what we took,_

 _But past an hour – the prospect's black_

 _Too late, it's gone, it won't come back._

'And done,' said Cassius, accidentally blotting his parchment with too much ink as he wrote the full-stop to the last line of the unearthly poem. Beside him, Iris leaned over to read the entire verse.

The two of them were in the Slytherin common room, which was, thankfully, relatively deserted. Not that it would have made much of difference in any case – most of the Slytherins tended to mind their own business and not interfere with anyone else's, unless the issue concerned the entire House. Cassius had just finished listening to the song from the golden egg, and had immediately written it down for Iris to look over, and hopefully help him decipher.

'All I could figure out was that the mermen sung it,' offered Cassius, as Iris skimmed through it once again.

She pursed her lips in thought, but did not reply to him. Cassius, rather wisely, chose not to interrupt her at this point – he had learnt the hard way as to what would happen if you interrupted Iris Parkinson's train of thought while she was figuring out a puzzle, or studying. She had later apologised to him profusely, claiming that it was an accident, but he still did not want to risk it.

And so, he waited in silence as she read it for the third time. She looked remarkably cute while she was doing so, in Iris' opinion: her brow was furrowed in concentration, while she sucked on the edge of her quill. Her eyes zoomed across the parchment behind her square glasses, and one of her feet kept tapping the floor.

Iris finally looked up at him after about a minute. 'Mermen, you say?'

Cassius nodded. The poem seemed pretty self-explanatory: the singers were going to take something from him, and place it – somewhere. And he had an hour to look for it, and get it back. If not…well, _'it won't come back'_ , as the poem said. And these were mermen, so…

'Where do mermen live?'

In answer, Iris pointed towards the window of the common room, showing a rather bluish image of the Black Lake. The view from there was not too deep – the dungeons of Hogwarts would have barely reached four feet below the lake's surface, but it made sense; the lake was bound to be a lot deeper, and mermen were known to inhabit the absolute depths of water bodies.

Cassius had never seen a merman in his life – at least, not a real one. The images in children's books – Muggle and wizard alike – depicted them as beings with kind faces, beautiful figures, and colourful tail fins. With that, they were also considered as benign creatures who were unlikely to steal anything from anyone.

So no, it was not going to be that kind of mermen who would be involved in the second task. These were likely to be more serious, possibly more territorially inclined, and ready to fight anyone who crossed them.

He glanced at the window once again – just in time to glimpse a greenish tail fin in the distance.

Cassius stood up so quickly he upended his ink bottle all over the table in front of them; Iris jumped at his sudden action, staring at him in surprise. 'What is it?' she asked him, also ignoring the mess of ink.

'Would they have green fins, by any chance?' asked Cassius.

Iris pursed her lips in thought, evidently cottoning on to what he was talking about. 'Yes, they might just have. I've not seen one myself, so I can't really say…'

Cassius did not comment; he stared at the window for a bit longer, but the greenish tail fin did not reappear. Giving it up as a lost cause, he turned back, saw the splattered ink, and cursed under his breath. ' _Scourgify_ ,' he muttered, his drawn wand pointed at the mess, and the ink disappeared at once.

'Right, so…' said Cassius, as he sat down.

'Hmm?'

'Got any ideas for the task?'

Iris looked at him curiously. 'Surely you've figured that one out by now,' she said.

Cassius shrugged. 'I brought it straight to you, Iris. I haven't even had the chance to think about it yet.'

She shook her head. 'I'm not saying anything, then. It's painfully obvious what the solution is.'

Cassius scowled half-heartedly, but had to admit she had a point. Iris had always encouraged him to think on his own, and come to her with possible answers, rather than ask her to solve the questions for him. 'How will you ever learn?' she had asked him, and promptly refused to help him until he came up with plausible ideas of his own.

There had been progress, but it was slightly slow – Cassius kept forgetting the rule and continued to ask her for help. Of course, that could have been attributed to his desire to spend more time with her. They were not dating yet, no, but they had connected rather well during and after the Yule Ball. They had had numerous discussions and debates on various topics – pureblood superiority, inclusion of Muggle-borns in Hogwarts, his suspicions about Mad-Eye Moody…

That last one had been of particular interest to Iris, especially since her father, Philip, had been one of Moody's captures after the fall of Voldemort. Contrary to popular Slytherin behaviour, Iris was grateful towards Moody for his actions – it had ensured a mending of ways by Philip, and the realisation that siding with the Dark Lord was not the right thing to do.

As for this Moody, however… Iris had agreed with Cassius that there was something fishy about him. They were at a loss, though, as to how they would gather any evidence to support any claim of theirs, but they did agree to keep a subtle and discrete eye on him – whenever possible, that is.

Even if Moody had helped him in solving the clue in the golden egg.

That brought him to his current situation – finding a solution for getting something from the mermen in the Black Lake.

Cassius yawned suddenly, a wave of tiredness sweeping over him. A glance at the clock on the mantelpiece told him it was late that evening; he decided he would get some sleep that night, and figure out a solution by tomorrow. He still had a good one month left, after all.

As he stretched and got up from his seat, Iris asked him, 'Any idea what Potter might be doing?'

Cassius looked back at her, intrigued.

He had told Potter about the idea to listen to the egg underwater just after the Yule Ball, when the latter and his friends had been climbing the marble staircase in the Entrance Hall. Their conversation had attracted a fair number of suspicious – and some even hostile – stares from the onlookers, but they had ignored them completely. Potter had been quite intrigued at the idea, and seemed quite surprised that he, Cassius, had chosen to help him for the second task. That being said, Potter had not indicated if he would heed Cassius' advice, and 'take a bath with the egg', as the latter had put it. He had merely thanked him and disappeared up the steps leading to Gryffindor tower.

That had been at least three weeks ago, but Potter had not shown any outward sign of having solved the clue inside the egg. Cassius had partly wanted to wait for Potter to tell him about it, instead of having to solve it himself, but as the weeks passed, the possibility of that happened began to dim; it seemed as though Potter was, as the Muggles said, playing his cards close to his chest. That, along with Iris' constant prodding, had finally forced Cassius to jump into a bath and solve the clue himself.

'Potter?' he said. 'Not a clue, why?'

'No reason,' she shrugged. 'Curious.'

Cassius did not know why she had raised Potter's name in the conversation, but let it slide. As brilliant as her mind was, it often jumped a little too fast for him to follow – this sometimes resulted in odd questions that seemed quite out of context, and were attributed to her curiosity. Cassius chose not to query her about it any further.

'I'm going to bed,' he announced. 'I'll figure out an answer tomorrow.'

Iris hummed, but did not press it. He reached out to give her a hug, then headed to the stairs leading to his dormitory.

As he lay awake in his bed a few hours later, however, his mind was filled not with possible solutions for the second task, but with the mystery that was Iris Parkinson.

 _ **You owe it to yourself, Cassius. Sophie would want you to move on.**_

 _I can't do that to her…not to Sophie._

 _ **Don't you deserve some happiness, at least? You cannot be hindered by your past.**_

 _I don't want to forget her…_

 _ **You won't. She will always be a part of you.**_

…

 _ **Everything will be alright.**_

* * *

 _I can't believe how easy that was._

With a slight feeling of elation, Cassius looked around the area where he was seated, taking in the gold-draped judges' table at the water's edge, and the enormous spectator stands on the opposite banks of the lake. He wrapped the towel around himself tightly, trying to stave off the chill that had seeped into him from the water, and accentuated by the biting February air.

They had just completed the second task in the Black Lake: Cassius had managed to pull out his best friend Adrian Pucey from the hands of the merpeople, sequestered in the depths of the lake, within fifty minutes of the allotted time of one hour. Iris' help had been invaluable for his performance: after he figured out the Bubble-Head Charm as the best solution for the task, she had made him rigorously practise non-verbal spells so that he could cast them while the Charm was in place – the bubble around his head made speaking out loud a slight challenge. The preparation had been quite useful, especially when he had had to use the Relashio Jinx against a pack of Grindylows, who had wanted to drag him down to their clump of weeds.

Despite all the training, however, Cassius had only been able to locate the mer-village after Potter had reached there; somehow, Potter had managed to find the entrance a lot quicker than the rest of them. For some unusual reason, he had refused to grab his hostage – the Weasley boy – and leave immediately. At that time, it seemed as though he wanted to make sure everyone would make it out just fine.

 _Stupid streak of nobility._

Cassius knew that the hostages would be unharmed – there was no way that the Tournament organisers and the judges would have allowed the merpeople to claim the hostages for their own after the specified time limit. It would have caused an uproar amongst the families of the students, not to mention the wider wizarding society too; the last thing the Ministry would have wanted is an inquiry into the events, and, quite possibly, a potential fight between the merpeople and wizards.

So, quite rightly, he had not taken the song literally. It had not mattered either way for him at least – he had returned well within the time limit, Adrian by his side, and they had clambered onto the banks of the lake to thunderous applause from the stands. He was followed not five minutes later by Viktor Krum, who appeared with his younger brother in tow.

Unfortunately, the remaining champions had apparently not thought the same way.

Fleur Delacour was seated a few feet away from him, a towel wrapped around her slender frame; tears streaked down her pale cheeks, however, and her arms bore the scars from scratches and bites. She had clearly been attacked, and had had to be rescued; judging by her reaction, she was afraid of the consequences for her hostage beyond the hour limit. Cassius had wondered why she had not jumped back in yet, but Iris, who had rushed down to meet him as soon as he had reappeared, had discretely told him that Madam Pomfrey had given her a strong Calming Draught.

 _Quite a strong dosage, that._

And as for Potter…

The minutes ticked by, the sand grains in the giant hourglass on the judges' table trickling down one by one into the bulb below; yet, there was still no sign of the youngest Triwizard champion.

The crowd was getting restless: they did not have any device or viewing platform to witness what was happening down below; the only pieces of action they had witnessed were the champions entering the lake, and their subsequent individual exits, with or without their hostages. Whispers and murmurs began to spread across the stands – would Potter arrive? What would happen to him, and the other hostages? What about Fleur?

A small chime sounded out from the judges' table: Cassius looked around, immediately noticing the hourglass glinting in the weak rays of the February sun.

The upper bulb was empty. The hour was up.

Cassius looked back at the surface of the lake: it was smooth and undisturbed, like glass. There was no indication, no sign, of Potter's reappearance.

A small vestige of doubt crept into Cassius' mind – could something have happened to him? Or even the other hostages, despite what he knew about their assured security? Had they been attacked by something other than merpeople? Grindylows, perhaps? Or had the giant squid fancied a bigger, fleshier, snack?

'Didn't he come there first?' asked Adrian from beside him. His teeth were still chattering, and he stammered slightly as he spoke.

'Yeah, he did.'

Neither of them knew how to continue the conversation beyond that, so they waited in silence.

Five minutes passed…ten minutes…eleven…twelve…

And then, at long last, the water surface broke; a head popped out into the cold air and weak sunlight – it was a boy, with messy, jet-black hair plastered to his head and the sides of his face.

The crowd roared in relief as Harry Potter emerged – and promptly became louder when they realised he was not alone.

The red-head of a Weasley boy came up next; his eyes opened, and he began spluttering as he took in deep breaths of air. He glanced at his surroundings, and his eyes widened in surprise as he spotted someone other than Potter.

The silvery-haired girl Cassius had seen in the lake was also bobbing alongside the pair of them; she looked genuinely scared and frightened at her situation, if her wide eyes were any indication. She had clearly not expected to be in the arms of Harry Potter, accompanied by a red-headed Weasley.

The trio slowly made their way to shore, both boys pushing and paddling along as the little girl held onto them tightly. Potter looked utterly exhausted: as soon as they reached hard ground, he literally collapsed, his nose saved from being broken only by his own reflexes. Cassius watched as Madam Pomfrey immediately scurried over, shooing away Professor Dumbledore, Ludo Bagman, and Percy Weasley, the last of whom had rushed out to pull his younger brother out of the water; she wrapped a thick towel around Potter, and forced that hot potion down his throat.

The Granger girl had also turned up on the banks from the stands – she was now fussing over Potter as he staggered to a seat. Out of sheer curiosity, he looked across to the stands, particularly the Slytherin section, trying to locate a head of blonde hair…

'She's there,' said Adrian, as though reading Cassius' mind. He followed his friend's finger to the edge of the Slytherin stands –

Sure enough, there she was – and she appeared to be positively relieved at the sight of Potter being safe and unharmed. Her hair was loose from her ponytail, and her hands were clasped in front of her, as though in prayer. Her eyes were fixated on Potter, bundled up in the towels, with steam gushing out of his ears.

'I told you,' said Adrian knowingly.

Cassius nodded. Adrian had told him and Terence about Daphne Greengrass' dance with Harry Potter during the Yule Ball – or at least, what he was able to see of their interaction before he had cast the Notice-Me-Not Charm on the pair of them – and Potter's confirmation of their mutual attraction. Cassius had not believed it at first ('You're joking, right?'): it had sounded too outlandish, and slightly far-fetched, to be true.

But now, with what he had just seen…

'A conference before we give the marks, I think.'

The voice of the Hogwarts Headmaster echoed across the banks; Cassius watched as the judges all went into a huddle, while a particularly wild and ferocious-looking female merperson sank back into the depths of the lake.

A sudden movement caught his eye: Fleur Delacour had moved to where Potter and Weasley were seated along with Granger; she was saying something to the two boys, after which she swooped down and kissed them both on the cheek. Cassius saw, with much amusement, Potter go red from the contact, while Weasley looked star struck, and Granger looked quite furious. He looked up, and almost laughed out loud at the similar expression of fury that Greengrass was sporting: she looked as though she wanted to kill the Beauxbatons champion for even going near Potter.

Just then, Ludo Bagman's magically magnified voice boomed out from near the judges' table.

'Ladies and gentlemen, we have reached our decision. Merchieftainess Murcus has told us exactly what happened at the bottom of the lake, and we have therefore decided to award marks out of fifty for each of the champions, as follows…

'Fleur Delacour, though she demonstrated excellent use of the Bubble-Head Charm, was attached by Grindylows as she approached her goal, and failed to retrieve her hostage. We award her twenty-five points.'

The crowd applauded her politely. Cassius saw Fleur shake her head and say something.

'Cassius Warrington, who also used the Bubble-Head Charm, was first to return with his hostage, with an impressive timing of fifty minutes out of the total allotted time limit of one hour.' The Slytherins cheered loudly. 'We therefore award him forty-nine points!'

Cassius' heart leapt – he was now in the outright lead, unless Krum made up the difference of five points. The same logic would apply for Potter, too – he had been tied for first place with Krum at the end of the first task.

'Viktor Krum used an incomplete form of Transfiguration, which was nevertheless effective, and was second to return with his hostage, with five minutes of the hour remaining.' The Durmstrang contingent applauded loudly; Cassius waited with bated breath. 'We award him forty-four points.'

 _I'm still in the lead_ , thought Cassius, grinning as Adrian whooped the air with glee. Those Hogwarts students who were also cheering had done the calculations, and knew that their champion was still in first place.

'Harry Potter used Gillyweed to great effect,' continued Bagman. 'He returned last, and well outside the time limit of an hour. However, the Merchieftainess informs us that Mr Potter was the first to reach the hostages, and that the delay in his return was due to his determination to return all hostages to safety, not merely his own.'

Cassius shook his head, just as Weasley and Granger both gave Potter half-exasperated, half-commiserating looks. _Blasted nobility of his._

'Most of the judges,' and here, Bagman gave an extremely nasty look to Karkaroff, 'feel that this shows moral fiber and merits full marks. However…Mr Potter's score is forty-seven points.'

Cassius experienced an emotion he had not felt in quite a while – elation at another's success. He clapped hard along with everyone else as the implications of the scores set in – he and _Potter_ were now _tied_ for first place, heading into the third task.

When Cassius had spotted Potter in the tent before the first task, with the prospect of dragons awaiting them, he had felt a little sorry for the young Gryffindor. Indeed, a little bit of worry had seeped into him as Potter sat in the corner of the tent, which only increased when he saw which dragon Potter had to face.

But he had performed magnificently with his Firebolt – his natural skill and talent helping him outwit the Horntail all ends up. It was then that he began considering Potter as a real, potential competitor in the Tournament. One task was maybe a bit too early to judge, but one could never tell when Potter was involved.

Now, however, there was no room for mere consideration; it was solid reality. Potter was a genuine competitor in this, and was likely to push him till the very end. The Gryffindor was not going down without a fight.

Cassius strode over to Potter and shook his hand, which the latter returned with a firm grip, despite the chill and exhaustion. The brilliant green eyes framed behind round-rimmed glasses stared right at him, and they held the promise of a good contest.

'Well done, Potter,' he said, and he meant every word.

'And you, Warrington,' said Potter, and he smirked at Cassius, as though he had known exactly what the Slytherin had been thinking.

Cassius grinned back, the prospect of the final showdown on the twenty-fourth of June exciting him.

Never had he looked forward to the summer as much as he had done just then.


	9. A Myriad of Reflections

**The Other Champion**

 **Chapter 8: A Myriad of Reflections**

* * *

 **Author's Note: Hope you enjoy reading this chapter, as much as I enjoyed writing it.**

 **Many thanks, once again, to Dorothea Greengrass for beta-reading this chapter.**

* * *

 **Disclaimer: Recognisable portions in this chapter have been taken from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, by J.K. Rowling. I neither own nor intend to make any profit from the use of Harry Potter and the associated characters of the series, in my story.**

* * *

 _ **Previously on "The Other Champion"…**_

 _Cassius strode over to Potter and shook his hand, which the latter returned with a firm grip, despite the chill and exhaustion. The brilliant green eyes framed behind round-rimmed glasses stared right at him, and they held the promise of a good contest._

' _Well done, Potter,' he said, and he meant every word._

' _And you, Warrington,' said Potter, and he smirked at Cassius, as though he had known exactly what the Slytherin had been thinking._

 _Cassius grinned back, the prospect of the final showdown on the twenty-fourth of June exciting him._

 _Never had he looked forward to the summer as much as he had done just then._

* * *

The end of the second task signalled the advent of March, and with it came drier weather, coupled with cruel winds that threatened to skin the hands and faces of everyone whenever they went out onto the grounds. There was never a moment during the day when the waters of the Black Lake were not still – many people wondered how the occupants of the Durmstrang ship were able to focus on whatever they did on-board with all that rocking. The Beauxbatons contingent was not spared either: more than once, Hagrid had been forced to help Madame Maxime steady the enormous carriage whenever a sudden gust of wind blew past.

Rather unfortunately, the owls that brought the post to the occupants of Hogwarts Castle were constantly blown off course, causing considerable delays. It became quite a task for the students to coax one of the school owls to do a job for them in that weather; indeed, the Hogsmeade Post Office had stopped its local delivery service using their tiny Scops for about a week, after a few casualties involving the tiny owls and large signboards.

While the gusty winds had thankfully subsided by the time the next Hogsmeade weekend rolled around, the Post Office were yet to resume the local delivery service, causing a bit of grief for the residents wishing to send Easter greetings to their friends and relatives nearby; they were forced to use the normal postal owls at higher rates, resulting in a lot of grumbling and complaints. Daphne, Tracey, and Blaise spotted a sizeable crowd gathered outside the Post Office as they walked down the High Street during their visit to the village; most of them were sporting grumpy expressions, while others counted the change they had to pay for the slightly dearer normal postal service.

Hogsmeade was, as always, a fascinating place to visit, even for those who had grown up in the wizarding world. While Zonko's Joke Shop, Honeydukes, and the Three Broomsticks proved to be the favourite haunts of Hogwarts students – along with the occasional visit to the Shrieking Shack – there were other, more interesting places to visit if one wanted a quiet time to themselves. Not many people knew that Ollivander's had a branch set up in Hogsmeade, which was manned by an assistant of Garrick Ollivander; or that the Wizarding Wireless Network had their headquarters there, and offered a tour of their facilities for the very affordable price of three Knuts; or that there was an almost constant rivalry between the branch of Potage's Cauldron Shop, and Ceridwen's Cauldrons, who were located just opposite each other on the main High Street.

Daphne had found out about all of these rather by accident: her wand had needed some repairs one day in her third year, which she got done from Ollivander's in Hogsmeade. During their first visit to the village earlier that school year, she had triggered a price war for a potential purchase of a replacement cauldron for herself and Astoria – both Potage's and Ceridwen's began offering her lucrative discounts while hurling insults at each other across the street. It had proved to be a highly entertaining visit, and she had managed to get the best deal one could ask for when buying cauldrons – ten Sickles each. She was yet to visit the WWN headquarters, but had seen the sign for the tour quite often as she passed it to go to Pippin's Potions, the local apothecary.

The three of them usually preferred a quiet stroll through the village, followed by an early lunch at the Three Broomsticks, and then a quick return to the castle, only to avoid the huge crowds that usually poured in; that day, however, they had decided to visit Gladrag's Wizarding Wear at Blaise's request: apparently, his socks were getting old and stretchy.

Being the only clothing shop of Hogsmeade, Gladrag's had quite a selection for its customers, ranging from the top-end dress robes and formal wear, to the more common black robes for everyday wear. They also had scarves and gloves and stoles ('It's always cold up here,' the storekeeper had said in a Scottish brogue that Daphne had difficulty in deciphering), hats and caps for all ages, and of course, socks of every colour and pattern imaginable. Quite conveniently, they also had a small section for Muggle clothing – apparently, one of their owners was a Muggle-born, and had started these sales for other Muggle-born students who preferred the 'more comfortable clothes', as she had put it.

The warm, musty air of the shop greeted the trio as they stepped inside; it was reasonably crowded, with a number of students milling about while their friends picked out the clothes they needed. Blaise immediately trooped off to the socks section, while Tracey dragged a rather unwilling Daphne to the shelves stacked with shoes.

'You won't even wear these more than once, Trace,' said Daphne in an oft-used exasperated tone.

'But they look so pretty!' squealed Tracey, as she slipped her feet into a silver shoe with a pointed toe.

Daphne shook her head – Tracey was a nightmare whenever they went shopping, due to her impulsive need to buy everything that looked good, and was affordable. She had tried, and failed, to convince her best friend not to purchase anything that was unnecessary, but her pleas usually fell on deaf ears. Even a huge shouting match between Tracey and her mother over her spendthrift nature had not succeeded in quelling the desire within the young Slytherin to shop.

Daphne gave up as her auburn-haired friend ditched the silver shoes, only to skip off to the witch's dresses section, which apparently had a sale going on. Feeling that it was okay to leave Tracey to her own devices for a while, she sauntered around the shop, examining the top-notch dresses and robes with mild curiosity. She passed the everyday robes section without pausing – she had enough of them anyway – before finally reaching the socks section, where Blaise stood with a confused expression on his face.

'What's with you?' she asked as she drew nearer.

Blaise jumped slightly at the sudden question; he was holding a pair of bright green socks with a silver pattern running across it, while the other was a black one with the Tutshill Tornadoes' crest stitched into it.

'I can't decide,' he said, after a minute of staring at both socks. 'I like them both, I can't decide.'

Daphne raised an eyebrow in amusement – she had never met anyone other than Blaise Zabini who was so particular about their socks. Silently, she stretched her hand out towards him, and Blaise gave her the Tornadoes pair.

'Why not just buy both?'

He frowned in thought. 'I don't need two pairs.'

'You said you needed three.'

'Yeah, I've already got two others.' He showed her a pair of blue socks with Beater's bats all over them that were pelting Bludgers around, and another plain black, formal pair.

'There's a Quidditch socks right here, isn't there? Take the Slytherin one, then.' And without further comment, she promptly placed the Tornadoes pair back in the rack. She chuckled at Blaise's frown – previous shopping experiences had taught her to take a firm stand when he was undecided between choices. It was the easiest way to wrap things up at the store, while it also gave Blaise the potential cover to blame her if the items she had chosen for him was not the best.

Of course, the latter situation was yet to arise; but, as Blaise had said once, 'you can never have too many contingency plans.'

A sudden shriek from the adjacent aisle caused them both to jump in surprise. For a moment, she thought somebody had fallen down – or worse, attacked – but then, she could hear someone laughing.

'Brilliant! Dobby'll love this!'

 _I know that voice._

She peered around a partition in the racks at the next aisle, looking for the owner of that voice.

Sure enough, it was him: messy black hair that stood up in all directions at the back of his head, slightly slouched shoulders, wearing clothes that were a bit too big for his frame, and accompanied by his friends – the lanky red-headed boy and the bushy-haired girl.

As she watched, Harry thrust the pair of socks he was carrying into Weasley's hands, and started rifling through the others on display.

'How about this one?' asked Granger, pulling out a set from behind the one Harry was currently examining. It was red in colour, with flashing gold and silver stars. She personally thought it was quite lurid and extravagant, but he grinned and passed that to Weasley as well.

'He'll love it,' said Harry; Daphne could tell he was grinning as he said it.

The three Gryffindors went off to the counter at the front of the store to pay for their purchases. Grinning herself, Daphne stepped back to re-join Blaise – who had been examining other socks with a mildly interested look – and Tracey, who had skipped over, a pair of pumps in her hand.

'Five Galleons off the final price!' she exclaimed excitedly, to which Daphne simply sighed. With their chosen items in hand, they too headed to the front of the store, just as the Gryffindors finished paying for theirs and moved to the door of the shop.

She expected Harry to look up and acknowledge her presence – a smile, or even a wave, although the latter might be rather difficult, given the company they were with – but Harry seemed too pre-occupied with placing the socks carefully in his bag; he did not seem to notice her as he exited the store.

Slightly disappointed, but trying to reassure herself that even a smile would have been too conspicuous in front of everyone, she moved ahead.

Only to get a whiff of chicken and – _was that bread?_

She stopped and stared at the back of Harry – or more specifically, his bag. Where had he got chicken and bread from? More importantly, what was he doing, carrying that in his bag around Hogsmeade?

Curiosity got the better of her, and she impatiently waited while Tracey and Blaise paid the plump woman at the counter for their shoes and socks respectively. As they trooped out to the mildest weather they had had all year – the sun was weak and silver – she spotted Harry, Weasley and Granger heading towards the other end of High Street, on the outskirts of the village.

She feigned an excuse to walk some more instead of heading for lunch at the Three Broomsticks ('We've never seen this part of the village before!'), and began following the path taken by Harry. Past Zonko's, past Honeydukes, past a shady old inn on a side street which had a wooden sign of a wild boar's severed head leaking blood onto the white cloth around it…

They had reached the shop called Dervish and Banges which, by the looks of it from the outside, dealt in magical instruments and the like; Daphne could see a few Sneakoscopes and lunascopes laid out on the desks inside. She looked up the street to the very end, where the road wound off into the countryside. In the distance, the mountain within whose shadow Hogsmeade lay was plainly visible – but she was more interested in the sight before her.

Harry, Weasley and Granger had continued on beyond the end of the normal road, and were now making their way on a brick lane that went past the few cottages in the area. There did not seem to be any indication of them coming back, nor did it seem like they were meeting anybody who lived in the cottages. Daphne frowned as she considered their actions – what on earth were they doing?

She looked back at her friends – Tracey and Blaise had, surprisingly, entered Dervish and Banges; from the outside, she spotted them admiring one of the rather ornately designed Sneakoscopes on display. She glanced around quickly – there was no one in sight on the High Street behind her, towards the village; on the other side, the three Gryffindors were almost out of sight themselves.

Daphne hesitated, weighing the possibilities, thinking…

She lost her battle with curiosity once again; turning on her heel, she quickly sauntered up the road after the Gryffindors. The area seemed rather quiet that afternoon, as though the residents were enjoying a well-deserved nap; she flinched with fear whenever she stepped on a stray twig or leave, hoping that no one would take a look out their window to investigate…

The road was very winding, the shadow of the mountain looming over her rather ominously; on and on she walked, catching glimpses of Harry whenever the road curved back in.

There was a sharp turn coming up in the road; Daphne spotted it quite early, and slowed down, so as to not surprise the Gryffindors if they were waiting there. As it was, the road did not seem to reappear ahead of her in a curve – either the lane turned right and continued in that direction, or there was no lane altogether. Somehow, she suspected the latter: they seemed to be quite close to the foot of the mountain already.

She crept along stealthily, careful not to make any sound that would announce her presence. There was a small tree at the turning, behind which she stood once she reached the corner, steeling herself to muster the courage and take a peek.

 _If you get caught, you'll be in big trouble._

Slowly, she turned and looked around past the tree trunk, towards the mountain – and froze.

A large, shaggy, black dog stood there, its tail wagging at the sight of Harry, Weasley, and Granger, with its front paws on the topmost bar of the stile at the end of the lane.

 _Is that the Grim?_

Daphne could not move, even if she wanted to. She had grown up with stories of the Grim – the graveyard haunting black dog – being retold to her by her father and aunt. She had believed them when they had recounted how the Grim was the omen of death, and how one should never see one if they did not want to die within twenty-four hours. Her faith in the legend had only grown when her Great Uncle William had sighted one, and had been found dead in his bedroom a few hours later.

And now, she had seen the Grim…

Fear enveloped her like a cocoon. She stared, transfixed, at the black dog, as it continued to wag its tail excitedly; its mouth was open, with its tongue lolling out, and showing its sharp, canine teeth…

But then, the edges of her vision were encroached by the three people she had been following – Harry, Weasley, and Granger. The sight of the dog apparently made them – did they look _happy?_

Confused, she watched as they reached the stile, upon which the dog was still resting its paws; then, Harry reached down, patted the dog on its head, and scratched it behind its ears.

 _What on earth…_

'Hello, Sirius.'

Daphne almost collapsed to the ground in shock; she was forced to grab onto the tree trunk, swaying for balance, while her mind tried to process what she had just heard.

 _Did he just say Sirius? As in Sirius Black?_

The dog – or was it even a dog at all? – sniffed at Harry's bag eagerly, wagged its tail once, rather fiercely, then turned and began to trot away from the trio across the scrubby patch of ground that rose to meet the rocky foot of the mountain. To her absolute astonishment, the three of them climbed over the stile, and followed the dog towards the mountain.

Daphne did not understand what had just happened. The shock of having seen the Grim had faded away as soon as the three Gryffindors had appeared – the logical part of her mind had convinced her that it could not be the Grim when everyone could see it – but it was soon replaced by bewilderment, confusion, and most of all, _fear_.

Daphne had first read about Sirius Black's escape from Azkaban in the _Daily Prophet_ , in the summer before her third year. She had been quite amazed at the fact that he had actually escaped, but was more frightened of the fact that he had once killed thirteen people with a single curse. The fear had only increased when, over the Christmas break, she had overheard her father and mother talking about Sirius Black's true motive for getting out of prison – to hunt down Harry Potter. The basis for his motive remained a mystery, however – even her parents did not know why – but the fact that he, a former right-hand of the Dark Lord, was out to kill a young student was chilling in itself.

When the Prophet had reported the escape of Black once again – this time after being captured in Hogwarts itself – her eyes had widened in amazement: how does one escape Hogwarts Castle? Especially one that was headed by Albus Dumbledore, and guarded at that time by the Dementors of Azkaban?

No one knew the chain of events leading up to it – and not many were too bothered to find out, either; apparently, he had left the country, and was no longer a threat. Indeed, Daphne had found it quite odd that, despite having a reputation as a mass murderer hell bent on revenge, there was no trail of crimes, murders, or disappearances that followed Black after both his escapes.

But today, after over eight months, the fear of Black had returned – but not without a healthy amount on confusion, centred around one specific incident.

 _Harry had greeted the dog as Sirius._

 _That makes no sense at all._

Daphne's mind whirred as the questions assaulted her: what were Harry and his friends doing here during a Hogsmeade visit? Why would Harry address a dog as Sirius? Was there a possibility that there was more than one Sirius? Was Sirius a dog Animagus? Pertinently, if that was Sirius Black as a dog Animagus, why was Harry Potter even being friendly with him?

The dog, Harry, Weasley, and Granger had disappeared from her line of sight; she could no longer spot them amidst the boulders and rocks strewn about the mountainside.

She turned back to face the road leading to Hogsmeade, her brain still pounding with doubts and fears. In the middle of all of them was her biggest worry:

 _Would Harry be okay?_

* * *

Surprisingly, and rather fortunately, Blaise and Tracey had been too preoccupied at Dervish and Banges to notice Daphne's sudden absence. Apparently, the shopkeeper had launched into an explanation of the origin of Sneakoscopes and the magic behind their operation, which had been quite engrossing for the two Slytherins. Indeed, Daphne had enough time to return to the shop and pretend to have been waiting for her friends for a good while.

They spent the rest of the day at the Three Broomsticks, where Blaise decided to recount the Sneakoscope origin story for Daphne's benefit. She decided to play along, even as her worry for Harry was steadily building inside her.

She admittedly could not fathom how and why Harry would be so friendly to his potential murderer, Sirius Black. That being said, she could not say if that dog had been Sirius Black in the first place: for all she knew, it could have just been a dog named Sirius, rather than an Animagus.

 _An odd place to meet a dog, though._

That was a fair point – there was no conceivable reason for them to meet a random, big, black dog named Sirius in the outskirts of the village. In fact, as she recalled the encounter, the dog had behaved in a very human-like manner: resting its paws on the topmost bar of the stile; sniffing at the bag as though it knew what to expect; turning and leading the trio to a discrete place far from prying eyes…

 _Who gives a dog bread, anyway?_

The more she thought about it, however, the more dead ends she encountered, including extremely far-fetched explanations. There was no way she would be able to figure it out without actually asking Harry about the entire thing; she doubted if he would tell her even she did ask.

And so, with a certain level of practicality, she decided to drop the matter, for now. She would not forget it, of course: Slytherins never forgot such important issues; she would speak to Harry about this later – when they did get a chance to do so, and when he was ready to tell her about it.

Sunday passed in a rush of pending homework: with their exams in less than three months' time, the Professors were looking to complete the syllabus as soon as possible, which consequently increased their workload. A number of people from other Houses were already showing the strain – Tanya Miller from Hufflepuff had already been taken to the hospital wing once to get a Calming Draught.

Monday brought with it slightly chilly weather, but the winds had thankfully moved on. Daphne and Tracey joined Blaise in the common room before heading up to the Great Hall for breakfast. The day's schedule was something Daphne quite looked forward to, as it involved her favourite subjects: Transfiguration with the Ravenclaws, Care of Magical Creatures with the Gryffindors, and then Ancient Runes; she conveniently chose to ignore the double period of History of Magic that they had to attend before the Ancient Runes lesson.

They entered the Great Hall just as the post owls arrived with soft whooshes and hoots. Daphne automatically looked up to see if her eagle owl had brought something from Greengrass Manor, but Archibald's distinctive plumage was missing in the crowd. She had not expected anything, in any case; her parents were more likely to send her gifts and eggs for Easter, in a few weeks' time.

A commotion in the Gryffindor table on the other side of the Hall caught their attention: a huge cluster of owls had landed right in the middle, where Granger, Weasley, and Harry were seated. All of them seemed to be addressed to Granger, because she started opening them, shaking her head, and handing them over to the two boys. She could not hear what they were saying about the letters, but judging by their facial expressions, they were definitely not advance Easter greetings.

Suddenly, a sharp exclamation of 'Ouch!' sounded out from Granger, followed by a truly unpleasant stench hitting their nostrils. Almost immediately, Daphne saw Granger jump up from her seat, her hands covered in what looked like large yellow boils, and hurry out of the Great Hall.

She turned back to the Slytherin table just in time to see Pansy guffawing with laughter at the sight of Granger's hands, and Weasley and Harry's unhappy expressions at the Gryffindor table, as they continued to sort through the letters around them. She was saved from asking the reason for Pansy's mirth when the latter said, 'Maybe Potter finally split up with her – that's why she was so upset.'

Daphne raised a sceptical eyebrow at her fellow fourth-year as she sat down with Tracey and Blaise and helped herself to toast, bacon and pumpkin juice. There had been a number of rumours making the rounds about Harry's 'relationship' with Granger, and how she had been 'stolen away' by his best friend Weasley when the pair had attended the Yule Ball together. Rita Skeeter, the lover of conspiracies, had promptly brought out an article in _Witch Weekly_ last week, detailing Harry's supposed love life, while even suggesting the possibility of Love Potions being used on both Weasley and Harry.

Quite interestingly, she had also written that Viktor Krum had been turned down by Granger when he had asked her to the ball – in the Hogwarts library of all places. Whether this was mere speculation, or actual truth, was anybody's guess: the two parties involved in the supposed conversation had said nothing about it. Most people had expected Hermione to deny it immediately, so her silence on the matter was considered as de-facto acceptance.

This meant there apparently was a quadrilateral, instead of the oft-used phrase 'love triangle'.

Personally, Daphne did not believe a word of Rita Skeeter's article: anything that considered quotes from Pansy as 'reliable source material' was not worth its salt at all. The _Witch Weekly_ was, in any case, a highly exaggerated magazine, with readership confined to a select following only out of loyalty: their articles were, quite frankly, rubbish and pathetic. Of course, her lack of belief had probably also stemmed from her emotional bias in favour of Harry, but even so…

'What was that about?' asked Blaise, who had also observed Granger's exit, and heard Pansy's comment.

'It looked like she got something in the mail – it smelled quite bad,' said Daphne.

'Something in her mail caused her to get boils on her hands?' said Tracey, chomping on a slice of bacon. 'What on earth could they have sent?'

'I think the more pertinent question is – why?'

Daphne shrugged at Blaise's question, and resumed her breakfast. Around her, the excitement over the multiple owls at the Gryffindor table had died down, and normal conversation had resumed.

Transfiguration finished rather quickly, and they were soon heading down the stone steps from the Entrance Hall out onto the grounds for their Care of Magical Creatures. She spotted Harry and Weasley traipsing out of the greenhouses along with the rest of the Gryffindors, on their way to Professor Hagrid's hut as well.

Pansy's shrill voice broke the cold, silent air around them: 'Potter, have you split up with your girlfriend? Why was she so upset at breakfast?'

Daphne noted that Harry did not turn around, and somehow felt an urge to silently cheer for him. He supposed he was not giving Pansy the satisfaction of admitting that something had happened between them, if at all, and the reason for Granger's sudden departure from the Great Hall. Weasley was scowling heavily, but he too, was silent.

Their Care of Magical Creatures class was an enjoyable affair: Professor Hagrid had managed to bring in a crate of Nifflers; each student was given one and asked to instruct it to dig up the gold buried in front of their teacher's cabin. Daphne found the little creatures adorably cute and cuddly – her chosen Niffler had tickled her while trying to sniff in her ear enthusiastically, and after it had finished getting the gold it could, it sat in her lap and looked up at her with a benign, innocent expression in its eyes.

Granger arrived at the class just when the last few coins were being dug up by the excited little Nifflers. Her hands were quite heavily bandaged, and she looked very miserable. Daphne glanced over at Harry, who looked a little upset himself, presumably at the sight of the bandages. Weasley, however, was having too much fun to pay attention to anything else; his lap had more gold coins than the rest of the class.

'Well, let's check how yeh've done!' said Professor Hagrid. 'Count yer coins! An' there's no point tryin' ter steal any, Goyle,' he added, his beetle-black eyes narrowed. 'It's leprechaun gold. Vanishes after a few hours.'

Daphne sniggered as Gregory, looking extremely sulky, emptied his pockets of the few coins he had managed to sneak in. Sure enough, Weasley's Niffler had been the most successful of the lot, so he was given an enormous slab of Honeydukes chocolate as a prize.

Just then, the bell sounded across the grounds for lunch. They took down their assignment ('An essay on the origin, location and description of Nifflers'), packed their bags, and set off back to the castle. Daphne spotted Harry and his friends staying back to help Professor Hagrid in putting the Nifflers back in their boxes. She stifled a laugh with one hand, her other holding on to her bag, as one of the Nifflers suddenly made a dash for Harry's pocket, and had to be pacified with another offering of gold coins.

Harry looked up just then, their eyes meeting for the first time in almost two days. He scowled slightly – presumably at her laughing at him – but that just made her grin even more. A moment later, however, he returned the grin, his green eyes shining brightly.

She gave him a wave – which he returned discretely, but enthusiastically – before turning around and hurrying to catch up with Tracey and Blaise, a smile on her face, and her heart feeling much lighter than it had been two days ago.

What a glorious day it was.

* * *

'Are you going to tell me about it?'

Cassius looked down at Iris, who was currently resting her head on his lap, with a nonplussed expression.

'About what?'

Iris frowned slightly. 'You know what I'm talking about.'

Cassius sighed. He did know what she was talking about – the tactic of feigning ignorance would never work against Iris. He reached out to clasp her hand in his, their fingers interlocking. Iris' face adopted a compassionate expression; she brought their hands up to her face and planted a soft kiss on his hand.

Not for the first time, Cassius wondered how incredibly lucky he was to have Iris in his life, even as a tiny part of his mind felt annoyed at the fact that he had entirely forgotten about Sophie.

 _I have not forgotten about Sophie._

He could not have forgotten – despite having moved on, there was a tiny part of him that still missed her. Cassius had heard the phrase: 'One never forgets their first love', which was true – Sophie was his first, and he could never forget her.

 _And now Iris wants a recap._

He sighed again, softer this time, and looked at Iris. She was playing with his fingers, apparently waiting for him to tell her.

'Her name was Sophie Moreau,' he began, and as he said her name, his mind began to conjure up his memories of her.

Iris did not give any response, but he could tell she was still listening intently.

'Her father used to work for the Muggle Government of France – an ambassador, or diplomat…something. It was quite a high-up position – they had a lot of security at their place.'

Iris gave him a sharp look. 'She's a Muggle?'

Cassius hesitated, debating on the best way to put it. 'Not exactly…'

His girlfriend raised an eyebrow, but did not comment; she returned to playing with their fingers.

'They had moved into the manor across the road.'

This time, Iris' eyes widened in surprise. 'Wasn't that the Shafiq ancestral home?'

Cassius nodded. The Shafiq family was listed as one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, the so-called Pure-Blood Directory published earlier that century. While they were still around at the time of the Directory being published, the family was mysteriously wiped out in the nineteen forties. Some suspected it was foul play; others attributed it to an ancient curse upon the family; still others simply blamed it on an incurable disease. Whatever it was, the Shafiq bloodline ended with the death of Mohammed Abdul Shafiq, the last heir to the House, in nineteen forty-seven.

Attempts had been made to trace the closest blood relative of the Shafiqs who still resided in Britain, but to no avail. As such, their wealth remained with the goblins of Gringotts for a period of forty years, until at last in nineteen eighty-seven, it was announced that the family fortune would be donated to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, towards the fund set up for less fortunate students.

The same, however, could not be said of their ancestral home. Ownership disputes and complex legal issues over the land had condemned the manor to abandonment, and the goblins had refused to get involved in liquidating it until the issues were resolved; it lay as such – empty and unoccupied – until the Moreaus finally arrived to take up residence.

'We met in the summer before our first year at Hogwarts. She'd just moved in from London, and Manchester before that, so she wasn't exactly unfamiliar with Britain.'

Iris remained silent.

'I knew her parents were Muggles – I couldn't find any reference to Moreau in any wizarding genealogy book, either in Britain or in France. They could have changed their name, of course, but it was unlikely.'

It was true – wizarding families rarely changed their names, and when they did, it was either to escape persecution, or to shed off a bad reputation. French wizards, in particular, were extremely averse to the idea; indeed, most of them preferred persecution to a name change, often terming the latter as _lâcheté_ , or cowardice.

'But Sophie was different…she was doing things that most normal, Muggle children would not have been able to do. It took me a while to figure out that she was magical as well.'

'Muggle-born, then,' commented Iris. 'Did you tell her about yourself?'

Cassius nodded. 'Yeah, I did. She didn't understand it at first, but then I showed her what I could do.'

'She must have been excited.'

'She was,' said Cassius. 'She was so happy that she had an explanation to all the strange things that had happened around her, and the fact that she would now be going to a school for magical education.'

Iris frowned slightly. 'Hang on, I just realised – she didn't come to Hogwarts with us.' She looked at him. 'Beauxbatons, then?'

Cassius nodded. 'She got her letter the day after I did. Their term starts in the middle of August, for some reason, so she left early. But we always met during the winter and summer breaks.'

He paused, his mind now full of images – memories of a different time – of them playing together in the snow, her teaching him how to make snow-angels, running around in the open fields during the summer…

 _You've moved on. You're with Iris now._

 _ **I know…**_

A soft hand on his cheek brought him to the present: Iris was looking at him, her eyes full of concern.

'I didn't know it was this difficult for you,' she said. 'It's okay if you don't want to tell me –'

'No,' he interrupted her, covering her hand with his own. 'I haven't told this to anyone – I think it'll be better for me if I do.'

She smiled at him, and nodded. 'When did you get together?' she asked.

Cassius gave a wistful smile. 'Summer before our fourth year. It just hit me one day that she…she was so important to me, you know? And that I would do anything for her…'

He trailed off. Iris gave him a knowing look.

'Anyway, yeah, we went out that summer. We began writing a lot more to each other than we used to – her owl was one of the few things I looked forward to.'

'Was that when you realised…'

'– that blood purity didn't matter?' Cassius finished. 'Yeah. She was bloody brilliant, to be honest. Might even be smarter than you.'

Iris chuckled at that.

'She was made a prefect at Beauxbatons too. I reckon she would have been made their champion if she had come for the Tournament.'

'I'm surprised she didn't come, actually. Why didn't Madam Maxime bring her?'

Cassius shook his head ruefully. 'Her father was transferred to the United States of America. She's at Ilvermony now.'

Iris raised her eyebrows. 'Really? That sounds fascinating…' She paused for a bit. 'That still doesn't explain what happened, though.'

Cassius bit his lip this time – the memory of it was still overwhelming, even more than a year on.

'Father found out about us,' he said, his voice shaking slightly. 'He was angry at both of us – me, for having chosen so _unwisely_ …and her, for having led me astray.'

He closed his eyes, his mind now replaying the scenes during that Christmas break in his fifth year.

'We got into a big argument. I tried to convince him, but it was no use. He wouldn't listen. He almost wanted to kill her for it.'

Iris let out a soft gasp. 'Kill her? But – that would have caused so much trouble –'

'Yeah,' said Cassius, opening his eyes and looking down at her. ' _Daughter of French ambassador to Britain found dead in mysterious circumstances_ – serves as a nice news headline, doesn't it? We were almost about to duel – when Mother stepped in.

'She convinced him not to do it, but agreed with him that I needed to stop seeing her. We worked out a compromise.'

He paused. Iris stayed silent, patiently.

'I was allowed to say goodbye, one last time. And then…'

Iris frowned, and sat up to face him properly. 'And what, Cassius? I thought you said he agreed not to kill her.'

Cassius nodded; his throat was too tight to speak.

'But then – what –?'

He shook his head. After a moment, he met Iris' gaze: her dark brown eyes somehow seemed to relay the resolve he needed to continue…to finish his tale.

'She doesn't remember me anymore.'

Iris clapped both her hands over her mouth to stifle her gasp of horror and shock. Cassius did not move – how could he, after reliving probably one of the worst evenings of his life?

After a good minute, she lowered her hands, her eyes still wide with disbelief. 'She – doesn't?'

He shook his head, just as his resolve crumbled; the dam that had held it all in for more than fourteen months broke, and the torrent of emotions – rage, loss, despair – came gushing out.

As the tears fell, one by one, Iris engulfed him in an embrace, cradling his face to her chest as she stroked his hair, much like a mother would do to her child.

He was not one to cry often, but he felt that the tears were helpful this time; as they subsided, he felt as though a large burden had been lifted from his shoulders; he felt…lighter.

'This is why you and your father don't see eye to eye, isn't it?' she asked softly.

He nodded, sniffling as he did so. Ever since then, he had had a rather difficult relationship with his father, especially due to the latter's threat to kill Sophie. Mrs Warrington had made slight progress in mending the bridges between father and son, but there was still quite a way to go.

He looked up at her, and leaned forward, still in the embrace, to kiss her. She responded gently, moving her mouth against his, giving him comfort, reassurance, and most of all – hope.

They broke the kiss, and she looked down at him, her dark brown eyes conveying everything one could say that did not need to be spoken out loud.

 _It will be fine, Cassius._

He managed a tremulous smile.

 _I know it will be._

* * *

'What have they done to it?'

Cassius looked in disbelief at the sight before him – the Quidditch Pitch was no longer smooth and flat. It looked as though somebody had building long, low walls all over it that twisted and crisscrossed in every direction. Every now and then, a sudden gust of wind would blow over the Pitch, and before their very eyes, the walls would shift and move, forming a different pattern.

Potter had bent down to examine the nearest one. 'They're hedges!' he exclaimed.

'Hedges? What in the name of Merlin –?'

'Hello there!' called a cheery voice.

Ludo Bagman was standing in the middle of the field with Krum and Fleur. Cassius and Potter made their way toward him, climbing over the hedges. Cassius noticed Fleur beaming at Potter as they approached, and, despite his indignation over the state of the Pitch, chuckled to himself. Clearly, Potter was no longer a 'leetle boy' in her eyes, not after saving her little sister from the Black Lake.

'Well, what d'you think?' said Bagman happily, as they climbed over the last hedge and moved to stand with their fellow champions. 'Growing nicely, aren't they? Give them a couple of months, and Hagrid'll have them twenty feet high. Don't worry,' he added, grinning, as Cassius and Potter looked shocked and horrified at that news, 'you'll have your Quidditch Pitch back to normal once the task is over! Now, I imagine you can guess what we're making here?'

Cassius looked at his competitors – none of them looked like they knew what was going on. But then –

'Maze,' grunted Krum.

'That's right!' said Bagman. 'A maze. The third task's really very straightforward. The Triwizard Cup will be placed in the center of the maze. The first champion to touch it will receive full marks.'

'We seemply 'ave to get through the maze?' said Fleur.

'There will be obstacles,' said Bagman happily, bouncing on the balls of his feet. 'Hagrid is providing a number of creatures…then there will be spells that must be broken…all that sort of thing, you know. Now, the champions who are leading on points will get a head start into the maze.' Bagman grinned at Harry and Cassius. 'Then Mr Krum will enter … then Miss Delacour. But you'll all be in with a fighting chance, depending how well you get past the obstacles. Should be fun, eh?'

Cassius had not taken Care of Magical Creatures as his elective subject, but the stories from his classmates and juniors had given him a fair idea about Rubeus Hagrid's choice of creatures. Rita Skeeter's article in the _Daily Prophet_ earlier that year had not helped either. With that in mind, he could not see how anyone could consider this task as _fun_.

Potter seemed to be thinking along the same lines, if his expression was anything to go by.

'Very well…if you haven't got any questions, we'll go back up to the castle, shall we, it's a bit chilly…'

Bagman hurried alongside Potter as they began to wend their way out of the growing and shifting maze. Cassius, however, had more pressing things on his mind.

He tapped Potter on the shoulder. 'Could I have a word?'

Potter looked at him, slightly surprised. 'Yeah, alright.'

'Let's go, then,' he said, and began to lead the way.

He heard Bagman saying something to Potter, but he could not discern the words clearly. In any case, it did not matter. He waited outside the stadium until Potter had joined him, and then, instead of heading to the stone steps of the castle, he began walking towards the forest.

'Erm, Warrington?' asked Potter. 'What –?'

'Don't want to be seen or heard.'

Potter stopped walking and stared at him. His brilliant green eyes were shining in the light from the gamekeeper's cabin, and the illuminated Beauxbaton's carriage.

'What're you planning to do?' asked Potter, his eyes narrowed.

'Just wanted to talk, Potter,' said Cassius.

'And we couldn't do that inside the castle?'

'D'you really think people would've let us be if we started speaking inside the castle?'

'I know a lot of places where we wouldn't be seen or heard.'

'For heaven's sake, Potter,' said Cassius, a tinge of exasperation creeping into his tone. 'Quit being paranoid and just come!'

Potter glared at him, but started walking again.

 _Finally._

They reached a quiet stretch of ground a short way from the paddock of the Beauxbatons winged horses. It seemed to be a good place as any – not too close to the castle, but not too near to the forest either.

He turned to face Potter, the shade of the trees from the setting sun providing them some cover.

'What's going on, Warrington?'

Cassius considered him. Not surprisingly, Potter's hand was in his pocket, where his wand was likely to be. He did not blame him – he would have probably done the same if their roles were reversed, and Potter had been acting as secretive as him.

'What are your intentions with Daphne Greengrass, Potter?'

Whatever Potter had expected, this was certainly not it. His glare was replaced by a look of utter bewilderment.

'What?'

Cassius resisted the urge to hit Potter upside the head – the boy was still thick as ever.

'Daphne Greengrass, Potter. Do you plan on asking her out?'

'Erm –'

Potter did not say anything for about a minute, struck dumb as he was; he did, however, manage to look around them, instead of gaping at Cassius like a fish out of water.

After about a minute, however, he seemed to have gained his resolve.

'What's it to you, Warrington?'

Adrian had asked him the same question, when Cassius had told his friend of what he had intended on asking Potter. Adrian, and Terence too, for that matter, had felt that asking Potter about Daphne was unnecessary, and none of their business.

 _They do not know. They do not understand._

'I'm not competing with you, Potter,' said Cassius, in what he hoped was a reassuring and clarifying tone. 'I'm not looking to gain her affections.'

Potter raised an eyebrow at that – Cassius could not blame him for this either. He had not exactly advertised his relationship with Iris Parkinson to the entire school.

'I'm just looking out for her,' he elaborated.

'And you're her – what, exactly? Big brother, all of a sudden?'

'Consider me a concerned party.'

Potter actually scoffed at that.

''Concerned party?' Since when did you care what happened to her?'

'Look, Potter –'

'No, Warrington. What happens between Daphne and me is our business, not yours.'

Cassius stared at him.

'You two are on first-name terms now?'

Potter looked momentarily nervous, but he managed to cover it up remarkably well. 'How does that matter to you?'

'There have been rumours, Potter,' said Cassius, at last.

This was not strictly true – there had not been very serious rumours about Daphne and anyone else; but Slytherin House was always full of these. If the word ever got out that they were together – if they even were, in the first place – there would be consequences.

And Daphne would be the first to pay.

'People have noticed – things. They've been saying that something's happening between you two. They want to stop it – put an end to it.'

Potter definitely looked a bit frightened now. 'Put an end – how?'

Cassius shrugged. 'They're under the impression that you've been leading her on…leading her astray.'

'What?! But I didn't –'

'I believe you, Potter,' he said, and he sincerely meant it. 'Adrian told me about what happened at the Yule Ball, and –'

'Wait,' interrupted Potter. 'He told you?'

'Well…he did say you two looked perfect for each other, and Adrian usually isn't wrong in these things.'

'That's not entirely reassuring, especially after what you've just told me.'

'No, I don't suppose it is,' chuckled Cassius. 'The important thing, though, is that she could be in veritable danger if word got out.' He paused. 'There are certain…characters, within our House, who are not exactly – friendly, shall we say.'

'Malfoy,' said Potter, nodding.

'I don't think I need to stress on this anymore, Potter. All I ask is that you exercise some caution, and discretion. You don't want to attract any unwanted attention, do you?'

Potter looked away from him, into the dark Forest. The shadows were getting a bit longer now: the sun was almost about to set.

'I like her,' he said at last. 'I think she's pretty, amazing, and a person I'd love to get to know more. And I reckon she feels the same way about me.'

He paused, still not meeting Cassius' eyes.

'We aren't going out yet. I want to – and I know she does too – but it's too risky. Especially with everything that's happening in the Tournament, between the two of us.'

Cassius nodded, not needing him to elaborate.

'I don't want her in danger, Warrington,' he said, and here he looked Cassius in the eye. 'She's more than capable of taking care of herself, I'm sure, but I promise I won't do anything to get her into any trouble.'

Inwardly, Cassius breathed a sigh of relief. His conversation with Potter had gone far better than expected – thankfully, Potter had been extremely understanding and cooperative of his motive to have this talk with him. He made a mental note to gloat about this later to Adrian and Terence.

'Thanks, Potter,' he said. 'That's all I need to know.'

'Right. Thank you, as well,' he added, and when Cassius looked at him curiously, he elaborated, 'It's good to know that someone's got her back in that House.'

Cassius grinned at him. 'All of us have each other's backs in Slytherin, Potter. Just be glad that there are a few of us who wouldn't put a knife in hers.'

Potter nodded. 'Okay, shall we get going –'

But something had moved behind Cassius in the trees; instinctively, Cassius spun around, drawing his wand as he did so and pointing it at what he thought was the place of movement. He noticed Potter had drawn his wand, too, and was pointing it very steadily at the same area.

Suddenly a man staggered out from behind a tall oak. For a moment, Cassius did not recognise him at all…then he realized it was Mr Crouch.

He looked as though he had been traveling for days. The knees of his robes were ripped and bloody, his face scratched; he was unshaven and grey with exhaustion. His neat hair and moustache were both in need of a wash and a trim. His strange appearance, however, was nothing to the way he was behaving. Muttering and gesticulating, Mr Crouch appeared to be talking to someone that he alone could see.

Potter looked at Cassius, hesitated for a moment, and then walked slowly toward Mr Crouch, who did not look at him, but continued to talk to a nearby tree.

'…and when you've done that, Weatherby, send an owl to Dumbledore confirming the number of Durmstrang students who will be attending the tournament, Karkaroff has just sent word there will be twelve…'

'Mr Crouch?' said Potter cautiously.

'…and then send another owl to Madame Maxime, because she might want to up the number of students she's bringing, now Karkaroff's made it a round dozen…do that, Weatherby, will you? Will you? Will…'

Mr Crouch's eyes were bulging. He stood staring at the tree, muttering soundlessly at it. Then he staggered sideways and fell to his knees.

'Potter!' hissed Cassius, stepping forward to join the Gryffindor. 'What's happening?'

'I have no idea,' muttered Potter. 'Mr Crouch?' he called out a little loudly, 'are you alright?'

Crouch looked quite insane – his eyes were rolling in his head, and he was gesticulating and muttering incoherently.

Cassius looked around them. There was no one sight, and night had almost fallen completely.

'We need to get someone, Potter –'

'Dumbledore!' gasped Mr Crouch. He reached out and seized a handful of Potter's robes, dragging him closer, though his eyes were clearly staring over Potter's head. 'I need…see…Dumbledore…'

'Okay,' said Potter, exchanging a helpless glance with Cassius, 'if you get up, Mr Crouch, we can go up to the –'

'I've done…stupid…thing…' Mr Crouch breathed. He looked utterly mad: his eyes were rolling and bulging, and a trickle of spittle was sliding down his chin. Every word he spoke seemed to cost him a terrible effort. 'Must…tell…Dumbledore…'

'Get up, Mr Crouch,' said Potter loudly and clearly. 'Get up, I'll take you to Dumbledore!'

Crouch's eyes rolled forward onto Potter, and then slid sideways to Cassius, standing right next to him.

'Who … you?' he whispered.

'We're students at the school,' said Cassius for the first time, indicating both himself and Potter.

'You're not… _his_?' whispered Crouch, his mouth sagging.

Cassius shot Potter a bewildered look.

'No,' said Potter finally.

'Dumbledore's?'

'That's right.'

Crouch was pulling Potter closer; he tried to loosen the grip on his robes, but it was too strong. Potter almost stumbled forward, and Cassius caught him around his shoulders to steady him.

'Warn…Dumbledore…'

'I'll get Dumbledore if you let go of me,' said Potter. 'Just let go, Mr Crouch, and I'll get him.…'

'Thank you, Weatherby, and when you have done that, I would like a cup of tea. My wife and son will be arriving shortly, we are attending a concert tonight with Mr and Mrs Fudge.'

Crouch was now talking fluently to a tree again, and seemed completely unaware that Cassius and Potter were there. Potter was so surprised that he did not noticed that Crouch had released him.

'Yes, my son has recently gained twelve O.W.L.s, most satisfactory, yes, thank you, yes, very proud indeed. Now, if you could bring me that memo from the Andorran Minister of Magic, I think I will have time to draft a response…'

'Potter, go get Dumbledore,' said Cassius firmly.

'I – what?'

'Get Dumbledore,' he repeated. 'Go!' he added in a strong whisper, as Potter seemed to hesitate. 'I'll stay here with him – just go!'

But as Potter moved away, Crouch seemed to have undergone another abrupt change in his behaviour: he staggered forward and grabbed wildly, hoping to pull Potter back. Instead, however, he hit Cassius' knee, causing him to fall down to the ground.

'Don't…leave…me!' he whispered, his eyes bulging again. 'I…escaped…must warn…must tell…see Dumbledore…my fault…all my fault…Bertha…dead…all my fault…my son…my fault…tell Dumbledore…Harry Potter…the Dark Lord…stronger…Harry Potter…'

Cassius froze; and it seemed, so did Potter behind him. He turned around, and saw Potter staring at Crouch with a mixture of surprise and fright.

'Potter, _go!_ '

Potter jumped slightly, then turned and sprinted back to the castle. Cassius could hear the echo of his footsteps pounding across the grounds for a while, before they died out. He looked back at Mr Crouch, who was now clutching his robes for support as he continued to mutter, 'Dumbledore…must tell…all my fault…'

'Dumbledore's coming, Mr Crouch,' said Cassius softly, as he adopted what he thought to be a reassuring tone. 'He's on his way, he'll be here soon –'

But suddenly, in the clump of trees behind them, Cassius heard something move. Struggling against the pressure of Mr Crouch on his robes, he tried to turn around, wondering how Potter was back so soon.

A jet of red light shot out from the trees, hitting him squarely on the shoulder. Cassius slumped to the ground, unconscious.

He had not heard who had cast the spell, nor did he know which spell had been cast.

But as he fell onto the ground, a distinct noise reached his ears – something that sounded vaguely familiar…

 _Clunk. Clunk._

* * *

 **Author's second note: I have decided to alter the structure of this story arc slightly – instead of one big story that captures everything from start to finish, it will be split into multiple stories basis Harry's years in Hogwarts. As such, this story will finish pretty soon, as Harry's fourth year is almost at its end.**

 **The next instalment of this plot – Harry's fifth year and onwards – will be in 'The Other Champion – Part II', due to be published in January / February 2018.**

 **Once again, thank you all so much for your love and support. Hope you have an amazing weekend.**


	10. The Third Task

**The Other Champion**

 **Chapter 9: The Third Task**

* * *

 **Author's Note: I have nothing much to say here, to be honest. I hope you've read the author's note at the end of the previous chapter – please do so if you haven't. I also hope you all enjoy reading this chapter, as much as I enjoyed writing it.**

 **Many thanks, once again, to Dorothea Greengrass for beta-reading this chapter, and for giving me ideas for various little things in this chapter.**

* * *

 **Disclaimer: Recognisable portions in this chapter have been taken from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, by J.K. Rowling. I neither own nor intend to make any profit from the use of Harry Potter and the associated characters of the series, in my story.**

* * *

 _ **Previously on "The Other Champion"…**_

 _But suddenly, in the clump of trees behind them, Cassius heard something move. Struggling against the pressure of Mr Crouch on his robes, he tried to turn around, wondering how Potter was back so soon._

 _A jet of red light shot out from the trees, hitting him squarely on the shoulder. Cassius slumped to the ground, unconscious._

 _He had not heard who had cast the spell, nor did he know which spell had been cast._

 _But as he fell onto the ground, a distinct noise reached his ears – something that sounded vaguely familiar…_

Clunk. Clunk.

* * *

'Are you sure that's what you heard?'

'Terence, if you ask me that one more time –'

'I'm just checking!' came the hasty response.

They were in the Slytherin common room, occupying their usual chairs in the more secluded corner near the fire. Despite the isolation – and the fact that they were sixth-years, and were not likely to be bothered by anyone else – Iris had cast a slightly modified Silencing Charm that ensured that their conversation would not be overheard.

It was the day after the Triwizard champions had been shown the maze for the third task, and Cassius had been Stunned by an unknown assailant in the forest, while waiting for Potter to return with Dumbledore and assist an insane Mr Bartemius Crouch. By the time he had been revived by the Headmaster, however, his assailant had vanished, but so had Mr Crouch.

Dumbledore had sent him with Hagrid straight to the hospital wing, where Madam Pomfrey had insisted he spend the night. He did not argue – not when the wild-looking half-giant gamekeeper was standing there, ensuring that he followed the Headmaster's instructions. He had returned to his Slytherin dormitories just in time for his classes earlier that morning, which resulted in the discussion of the previous night's events taking place later in the evening.

Iris frowned thoughtfully, her head resting on Cassius' shoulder. 'Why would Moody want to Stun you, though? Doesn't make sense.'

'We don't know if it was Moody who did Stun him,' Adrian pointed out, taking a bite out of an apple. He gulped it down, then said, 'All we know is that he was there, and that he turned up later to help Dumbledore find Mr Crouch.'

'Yes, but…' Terence trailed off. 'Why would Moody be there in the first place?'

'He's paranoid?' said Adrian. 'He probably took a stroll around the grounds to see if anything was amiss – I dunno.'

Iris gave him an odd look. 'That doesn't make sense, Adrian.'

'I'm not saying it does, Iris – it's just a possibility.'

'A possibility that doesn't make sense.'

'Actually,' said Terence, overriding both Iris and Adrian, 'Cassius isn't even sure if he heard Moody's wooden foot there – are you?'

Three pairs of eyes focused on Cassius, who shrugged.

'I may have been mistaken,' he admitted.

'See? It could've been anyone,' said Terence in a triumphant tone.

Adrian looked at him. 'What's your point?'

'I have no idea, to be honest,' said Terence with a cheeky grin.

Adrian scowled, and threw his apple core at him; Terence dodged it, and sniggered.

'Weren't you supposed to be a Chaser?'

'Shut up.'

'Quit it, you two,' said Cassius, and they fell silent.

Iris was sporting a thoughtful expression; she looked sideways at Cassius from her position on his shoulder and asked, 'Remind me what Crouch was saying again?'

Cassius sighed. 'I told you, he said the Dark Lord was getting stronger.'

The four of them exchanged significant looks. Despite being a member of Slytherin House, they were part of the handful minority who did not wish for the Dark Lord to return to power.

'And…?'

'And that the death of someone called Bertha was his fault. Oh, and his son was his fault too, although I have no clue what he meant by that. I didn't even know he had a son.'

'He was caught with the Lestranges,' said Iris softly.

Cassius gaped at her; so did Adrian and Terence. They had certainly not expected this: Bartemius Crouch's son – _a Death Eater?_

'The Longbottoms?' asked Terence.

'Yes,' said Iris. 'Father told us about it last summer. Crouch threw his own son into Azkaban. Died within a year, apparently.'

'So he blames himself for his son turning out to be a Death Eater?' asked Adrian. 'Noble of him, I'd say.'

'Crouch was a workaholic, he rarely spent time at home,' said Iris. 'People said his son went astray because of that.'

Adrian raised his eyebrows at that, but did not comment.

'You said he kept saying Potter's name too,' said Terence.

Cassius nodded in agreement. 'He said it twice, when he was blabbering about the Dark Lord getting stronger… The rest of the time, he was talking to a tree, addressing someone called Weatherby.'

Terence sniggered. 'Who names their child Weatherby?'

But the question had caused Cassius to remember something. 'He'd spoken about Weatherby before,' he said, as the details from that night came back to him. 'It was in the chamber off the Great Hall, right after we'd been chosen as champions.'

The rest of them gave him an odd look. 'What did he say about this…Weatherby?'

'Erm…he said he'd left him in charge, and…and that he was quite enthusiastic.'

Iris, Adrian, and Terence stared at him.

'Well, that doesn't help much,' said Terence.

'No, I don't suppose it does,' said Cassius.

They fell silent. Iris broke it a minute later.

'When he was talking to the tree…he kept thinking his son was alive?'

'Yeah,' said Cassius. 'His son and wife – something about his son getting twelve O.W.L.s, and attending a concert with Mr and Mrs Fudge…'

Once again, the four of them exchanged odd looks. None of the others knew what to say to that.

'Do we know what happened to Crouch, then?' asked Terence at last.

Cassius shook his head. 'Potter told me neither Dumbledore nor Moody could find him.'

He had managed to track Potter down after lunch that day, just outside the Great Hall. His friends, Weasley and Granger, had also been there, and were surprisingly open to conversing with him about the entire matter. He supposed Potter had told them about their conversation before Mr Crouch had shown up – but that would have meant telling them about his feelings towards Daphne. He doubted if Potter would have told them about _that_ , but even so…

In any case, Potter had confirmed that Moody had not been able to find Crouch: in effect, the Ministry of Magic employee had quite simply, disappeared. Even a quick sweep of the grounds by Dumbledore had failed to turn up any positive result. It was disheartening, but there was nothing to be done about it.

* * *

As April turned into May, which turned into June, the weather grew warmer, and the grounds a lot more welcoming; unfortunately, Cassius was forced to stay indoors as he practised for the third task. The announcement that there would be creatures and obstacles to overcome in the shape-shifting maze had elicited a typical response from Iris: begin training at once.

And so it was that over the next two weeks, Cassius, with the help of Iris, Adrian, and Terence, began practising the spells, hexes, curses, and jinxes he knew for the third task. He was quite well-versed with the Stunning Spell, the Impediment Curse, and the Disarming Charms, so Iris insisted on him learning to cast them non-verbally. They were using non-verbal spells in most of their classes this year, but he had never cast these without uttering the words before.

Professor Snape had, rather generously, allowed them to use one of the abandoned dungeon classrooms during breaks, lunchtimes, and after normal classes for their practice, so that they would not be a hindrance to anyone else wanting to use a classroom. Despite the ready-made facilities available, and the help of his friends, he was still having trouble in casting a non-verbal spell.

It had come to a head one day, when Iris all but lost her temper at his inability to do so without shouting the incantation.

'C'mon, Cassius!' she had shouted exasperatedly. 'Focus on the spell – think the words in your mind, and cast it!'

She flicked her wand at an oncoming fly, and the poor insect stopped dead in mid-air.

Her anger towards him had triggered something inside of him: exhausted as he was from an exceptionally gruelling practice session, and ticked off with his failure to master the spell, he pointed his wand at Adrian – who was serving as the Stunning dummy – and all but yelled _'STUPEFY!'_ in his mind.

It was a combination of luck – there was a stack of pillows arranged right behind Adrian – and quick thinking on Iris' part, that had saved Adrian from getting a concussion.

'Sorry,' said Cassius sheepishly, once Iris and Terence had revived Adrian. The blonde sixth year sat up and grinned at him.

'Fair warning next time, yeah?'

Rather by accident, they had found out that even Potter had been doing a similar kind of practice routine, as part of his preparation for the third task. The four of them had decided to head early for Transfiguration after lunch one day, and had narrowly missed being hit by an astonishingly accurate Reductor Curse fired by the young Gryffindor. After profusely apologising for the close shave, and a round of introductions later, the topic had somehow diverged into a discussion about possibly practising together.

While Granger and Iris had been all for it – and had exchanged high-fives, much to the surprise of everyone else present – Terence and Weasley had not been too keen on the idea. With Cassius and Harry having pitched the idea in the first place, the casting vote had gone to Adrian, who had looked distinctly uncomfortable as six pairs of eyes trained their gazes on him.

'Erm…' he had stammered.

They had had to wait for another minute before he could stammer out a coherent response, but it was in favour of the idea.

'I'm sorry, Terence and Weasley, but it'll help both Cassius and Potter with their training,' Adrian had reasoned.

Terence had shrugged, but Weasley still looked slightly uncomfortable. Potter had promised to convince him otherwise by the time their first practice rolled around.

The Gryffindor stuck to his word: Weasley was in a much better mood when the seven of them met up for their first joint-training session, and, with a level of maturity that astounded the Slytherins, apologised for his stand-offish behaviour the last time.

'I was a prat, and I'm sorry about it,' he said, and that was that.

Their practices progressed quicker, and a lot more efficiently, when working together. With Granger – _Hermione_ , Cassius corrected himself, after yet another reminder from the bushy-haired witch to address her as such – and Iris acting as the brains behind the session, the number of spells they were able to practise increased, as did their quality in casting them.

By the end of their seventh daily practice, all of them were quite adept in non-verbal casting – including Terence, who had silently reduced a desk in the dungeon classroom to dust using a ridiculously strong Reductor Curse, and Ron, who, as a joke, had fired off four silent Stunners in quick succession, incapacitating the Slytherins when they had not been looking.

He had guffawed about it for five whole minutes after Hermione had revived them, but was soon struck with a Tickling Hex, Jelly Legs Jinx, and an Antler Hex by the three Slytherin boys in retaliation.

While these training sessions had, of course, helped Cassius and Harry in gaining invaluable experience and knowledge in their preparation for the third task, the others were also benefitted in more ways than one. While the two champions were practising the spells for the day, Iris and Hermione would begin discussions on complex Arithmancy problems and other issues that the brainy Gryffindor could not have had with her two best friends. Indeed, both girls could often be seen engaged in heated debates on S.P.E.W. – which all the Slytherins had flatly refused to join – or other magical theories.

The most surprising thing, however, had been Ron's volte-face in his attitude towards Slytherins; from openly despising them at the start of the school year, he was now asking them for help in his homework and revision for his examinations, that were coming up quite soon. When they were not discussing academics, the boys would revert to talks about Quidditch – Ron had found a fellow Chudley Cannons supporter in Terence, and they would often get stuck in discussions on Quidditch teams, the on-going Quidditch season, and various Quidditch plays that they had seen in matches. Adrian and Terence had been especially jealous of Ron when he had told them, rather smugly, that he had watched the Quidditch World Cup Final from the Top Box.

The time spent together had resulted in bonds of friendship developing between the seven of them, which often spilled out onto their interactions outside of the training classroom. The school had been shocked – and naturally so – when, after breakfast one day, Ron and Adrian had said a few words, grinned at each other, and exchanged high-fives while exiting the Great Hall; Cassius and Terence had almost snorted into their glasses of juice as they took in the reaction of the students, while Harry, Hermione, and Iris had laughed out loud. Draco Malfoy's face had been especially amusing – Iris had remarked that he had looked as white as the ferret he had been turned into by Moody earlier that school year.

The bond between Cassius and Harry, for that matter, was only strengthening as the days went on. They had considered each other as acquaintances at first, and fellow competitors, when the Tournament had started, but as the date of the third task drew nearer, they had become quite good friends. In fact, Cassius had become a little protective of Harry, rather like an older brother would feel for his younger sibling; the Slytherin would ensure that Harry perfected a spell, or understood the concept fully, even if it was at the cost of his own homework or learning. Indeed, the feeling had become so strong one day that Cassius had publicly rebuked Draco for insulting Harry and his friends. The blonde Slytherin had gaped, dumbstruck, at the older Triwizard champion, his eyes wide and his face flushed with embarrassment, as Harry, Ron, and Hermione smirked at him, grinned at Cassius, and headed for their next class.

Draco managed to get his voice back once the Gryffindors were out of earshot.

'Why are you even sticking up for them?' asked Draco furiously.

Cassius glared at him. 'They are my friends, and –'

'Friends!' scoffed Draco. His face twisted into an ugly expression. 'You're a disgrace to the name of Salazar Slytherin,' he spat.

'I'd rather be that, than a disgrace to Hogwarts, Draco,' Cassius fired back, unperturbed by the venom in the Malfoy heir's voice.

Cassius had also done a big favour for Harry – it turned out that Harry had not told his friends about Daphne Greengrass and their mutual attraction towards each other. As such, he, along with Adrian and Terence, had helped Harry in telling Ron and Hermione at first. As expected, they were shocked at first, especially when the real reason for Cassius and Harry's talk before encountering Crouch near the Forbidden Forest emerged; soon, however, they seemed convinced of the fact that Daphne was not evil, and genuinely cared for Harry.

Unfortunately, Cassius could not bring her to the practice sessions, as it would have attracted a lot of unnecessary – and possibly unsavoury – attention onto herself. Harry had, rather half-heartedly, agreed.

The level of camaraderie between the seven of them was unprecedented – not many people could remember a time when so many Gryffindors and Slytherins got on so well together, and still fewer people had the inclination to oppose the friendship. With four sixth-year Slytherins, the two Hogwarts champions, and the two smartest witches of the school a part of the group, no one – barring the occasional glare or outburst by Draco – wanted to say a word against them. Even the Weasley twins – who had so often targeted the Slytherins in their pranks – had left them alone, and, according to Hermione, had congratulated the Gryffindor trio for doing what they could not do.

The Professors had applauded this show of unity – Professor McGonagall had awarded them ten points each when she had dropped by to witness one of their practice sessions, for 'inter-House unity and cooperation'. Harry and Hermione had protested at that – it meant that Slytherin was getting ten points more just because they had one more member in the room – but Ron, quite cheekily, marched up to her, and handed in his Transfiguration essay on inanimate to animate objects a full two days in advance. The seven of them had half-expected her to dock points from him and assign him a detention – her mouth was thinner than it had been when she had first entered, as she perused the essay.

It was to their utter astonishment, however, that she looked up at Ron, gave him a rare smile, and awarded him an extra ten points for 'sheer cheek and intelligence'. Cassius had never seen Hermione look prouder than at that moment.

The reaction of Professor Snape, on the other hand, was, in all respects, extremely unusual. He imitated his fellow Head of House by paying a visit to the dungeon classroom one evening, two weeks before the third task. Snape walked in to shouts of _'Bombarda!'_ from Cassius and Harry, and luckily stepped back just in time: the Bombarding Curse was directed at two small boulders that Iris had conjured, and the debris from the small explosion flew past the area where Snape had been standing before stepping back.

'So sorry, Professor!' exclaimed Harry, as Iris and Hermione leapt up and waved their wands in a circular movement, and the debris vanished. 'Didn't see you there.'

Cassius recalled Snape's snarky remarks on the night they had been chosen as Triwizard champions, and half-expected the Potions Professor to say something rather similar, to Harry. Quite surprisingly, Snape did not say anything – at least not immediately. Cassius saw his black eyes, glittering strangely in the light from the torches inside the classroom, sweep over all of them – Iris and Hermione, who were standing with their wands drawn, Ancient Runes books lying open on a desk in front of them; Adrian and Ron, looking up from their place at another desk where Ron had been working on a Herbology essay; he, Cassius, and Harry, their wands hanging loosely at their sides, faces slightly sweaty and red from the practice; and Terence, who had been juggling four pieces of chalk in one go, and now had two pieces stuck in his hair.

The Professor's gaze reverted to the champions, and lingered on Harry, who had apologised. Cassius chanced a quick sideways glance at his friend: the boy was staring unblinkingly at Snape, his green eyes shining as well.

'Not a problem, Potter,' said Snape at last, after a few tense moments of silence. 'My apologies, my entrance was unannounced.'

Cassius saw Harry shoot him a look, one that plainly asked the question – _what happened to Snape?_

 _My thoughts exactly._

'Your wand movement is a little erratic, Mr Warrington,' said Snape, his attention now focused on Cassius. 'The arc before the jab must be wider – do not restrict it, or the impact of the spell will be reduced.'

Cassius, quite literally, gaped at his Head of House. Since when had Snape become so supportive, and full of good advice?

Iris, apparently, had no such qualms regarding Snape's behaviour. 'I've been telling him to do that for ages, Professor.'

Snape glanced at Iris, then raised an eyebrow at Cassius, who turned a slight shade of red.

'Good luck,' said Snape, and after a pause, 'both of you.' And he swept out of the classroom, leaving a stunned silence in his wake.

Ron finally spoke up. 'I think we broke him.'

No one seemed to disagree with that statement.

* * *

The morning of June the twenty-fourth dawned bright and clear – so clear, in fact, that Adrian had lamented about the lack of Quidditch that year, for these were excellent conditions for a match. The sun was up and about by the time the four Slytherins arrived for breakfast, with no clouds in the sky at all.

They took their usual seats at the Slytherin table, looking up to wave at Harry, Ron, and Hermione over at the Gryffindor table across the Hall. Breakfast was a noisy affair: being the last day of examinations for everyone, and with the third task was later that evening, excitement and anticipation was running quite high amongst the students.

The post owls arrived a few minutes after they began tucking in. Cassius had half expected a greeting card, or a letter, from his parents, wishing him luck for the final task, but his family owl, Apollo, was not among the birds circling above his head. His heart sank slightly: surely they knew he was tied for first place, and would have a head-start in the maze? And if not both his parents, at least his mother could have sent him something? He could not see the difficulty in doing so – it would have taken her all of five minutes, after all.

He had been so preoccupied with his thoughts, that it took him a few moments to realise Iris had been prodding his shoulder for the last minute, an anxious expression on her face.

'What is it?' he asked, all thoughts of his parents banished from his mind.

Wordlessly, she handed over her copy of the morning's _Daily Prophet_ to him. He took one look at the headline and cursed.

'Once we're done with this task, I'm going to make her pay,' he vowed.

He looked over Terence's shoulder – who was sitting opposite him – to the Gryffindor table, where he spotted Harry reading the newspaper, his face expressionless. Once he was done, he folded the paper and gave it to Ron, telling him something as he did so; then, he met Cassius' gaze and rolled his eyes, as if to say, 'I'm bored of this.'

Just then, he heard Draco yell across the Hall, 'Hey Potter! _Potter!_ How's your head? You feeling alright? Sure you're not going to go berserk on us?'

Before Cassius could retort angrily at Draco, another, softer voice beat him to it. 'Dear me, I didn't know you were so concerned about Potter's welfare, Draco.'

He looked down the table, his face splitting into a wide grin. Daphne Greengrass had arrived at the Slytherin table, just in time to hear Draco's yell; a quick skim through Tracey Davies' copy of the Prophet, had given her enough background to decipher what Draco had been so anxious to tell Harry.

The Slytherins around them sniggered, while Blaise laughed openly. Even as Draco glared angrily at Daphne, she continued, 'I mean, first it was whether he took his daily shower –' there were more sniggers now, '– then about his life at home, and now about his health?' She shook her head rather dramatically. 'It must be terrible that he doesn't reciprocate it to you, isn't it?'

The Great Hall had gone quiet at Draco's initial shout, so Daphne's retort was plainly audible to everyone, despite her soft voice. By the end of it, every single House table was awash with sniggers and giggles, before the students returned to their breakfast – or in some cases, their revision notes for the day's examination.

Cassius felt as though he could have kissed Daphne – ever since his public rebuke of Draco, the blonde had been behaving like a spoilt child, with regular reminders to everyone of the fact that his father would hear about it. He had needed to be taken down a notch or two – Cassius had desperately wanted to do so, but Daphne had beat him to it in rather spectacular fashion.

He looked at Daphne and gave her a thumbs-up, which she acknowledged with a smirk. A glance at Harry told him that the Gryffindor was as impressed as he was – Harry was staring wide-eyed at Daphne, a huge grin on his face, which only increased as they made eye contact.

In the midst of all this, they had forgotten about Draco; boiling with rage, he had drawn his wand and was trying to discretely aim it at the oblivious Daphne. 'Why, you –'

'What's going on?'

Professor Snape had swept down from the staff table, glowering at the students of his House, who fell silent at once. Cassius noticed Draco put away his wand under the sleeve of his robes.

'Nothing, Professor,' said the blonde, his face expressionless.

Snape regarded him for a moment, but did not comment; he continued down the aisle between the Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables, and stopped next to Cassius, who looked up with a puzzled expression.

'Mr Warrington,' said Snape, 'the champions are congregating in the chamber off the Hall after breakfast.'

Cassius frowned. Had he mistaken the time for the third task – was it going to be in the morning instead? He glanced at Iris, who shrugged, looking just as confused as he was.

'It is an opportunity to meet your family,' elaborated Snape in his slow voice. 'As you know, they have been invited to watch the final task.'

 _I didn't know that._

He nodded blankly at Snape, who returned it with a swift nod, and moved away. Cassius stared after her.

 _Have they really come?_

'You should go,' said Iris quietly. 'Finish your toast and go. They'd want to see you.'

He looked at her, his mind conflicted. On the one hand, if they had come – and they would have, since Snape had said so himself – it would be a major moral and confidence boost for him; they were his family, after all. On the other hand, his father…

Iris seemed to have realised what he was confused about. She kissed him on his cheek. 'Things will be fine, I promise.'

Their eyes met again, and he felt a sudden rush of emotion towards her – something he had not felt since he had been with Sophie. And before he could even think about what he was about to say, his mouth opened, and the words came out.

'I love you.'

Iris stared at him silently. Panic arose inside him – had he broken her? Had he said the wrong thing? Was she – _was she smiling?_

She was: there was a huge grin on her face, and her dark brown eyes were slightly teary.

'Took you long enough, you idiot,' she whispered.

Cassius grinned goofily, while his heart and stomach leapt with joy.

'I love you too,' she said, still whispering, and leaned in to kiss him properly.

The moment was perfect; he had lost sense of time and space around him – the only thing that mattered was her lips on his, and how perfect she was for him, and how much he loved her –

'Enough of that already – get a room.'

And how he was going to kill Adrian after the latter was done with his exam.

They broke apart, and Cassius glared at his best friend, who was grinning cheekily.

'I'm sorry, did I interrupt you?' he asked innocently, while still sporting that annoying grin.

Iris giggled at the two boys. 'You should go, love,' she told Cassius, kissing his cheek again. Then, turning to Adrian, she said, 'C'mon, we've got an exam.' She stood up, smiled at Cassius, and headed out of the Great Hall. Adrian followed suit, with a wink at Cassius.

'Good luck!' Cassius called out to them, then returned to his breakfast. Suddenly he looked up, realising that Terence was still there.

'No exam for you?'

'Nah, they've got Charms. I dropped it this year, remember?'

'Oh yeah. What're you going to do then?'

Terence shrugged. 'I dunno. Probably hang around in the common room, I guess.'

Cassius nodded. Normally, he would have invited his friends to meet his parents, but today was different: he wanted some alone time with them.

Terence seemed to know what he was thinking. 'Don't worry, you go on,' he reassured Cassius. 'You need to meet them.'

Cassius nodded again, swallowing the last bite of his toast. 'Thanks, Terence. See you later.'

He stood up from his seat and made his way to the chamber off the Great Hall. The walk up there felt a little surreal – just a little under eight months ago, he had made the same journey up to the staff table and through the door to the chamber, after the Goblet of Fire had spouted his name as the Hogwarts champion. Now, he was going again, on the last day…

The chamber looked the same – paintings of witches and wizards lined the walls of the room, including the ones housing the wizened witch with a pale pointed face, and the wizard with the walrus moustache.

Viktor Krum was standing in the far corner of the room, conversing with his dark-haired mother and father in rapid Bulgarian, one arm around the shoulders of his younger brother. He had inherited his father's hooked nose. On the other side of the room, Fleur was jabbering away in French to her parents; her little sister, the silver-haired girl whom Harry had pulled from the lake, was holding her mother's hand.

A short distance from the Delacours stood two people – a short, plump, motherly-looking woman, and a lanky boy wearing a jacket and boots made of dragon hide, an earring with a fang dangling from it, and with his long hair tied back in a ponytail. Cassius immediately recognised the trademark red hair of the Weasleys: he presumed the woman must be Ron's mother. As for the tall boy…he vaguely recalled a similar looking boy being the Head Boy of Hogwarts in his first year; if he remembered correctly, his name was Bill.

He wondered what the Weasleys were doing in the chamber – none of the Weasley children were participating in the Tournament.

Finally, he looked straight ahead towards the fireplace, where his parents were standing.

Magnus Warrington was tall and proud, with a big personality and a slightly bigger ego to match. His black hair, which was greying around the temples, matched with the dark eyes his son had inherited from him. It was these eyes, however, that proved to be the most foreboding feature of the Warrington Head of House: the intense gaze sometimes gave the impression that the receiver was being looked through, rather than looked at, and not in the friendliest manner. He had donned his best-looking dark blue robes for the occasion; clearly, he was looking to project the image of a regal man.

They say that opposites attract, and it could not have been closer to the truth with Patricia Warrington – at least when it came to physical appearance. A lovely, vivacious brunette in her youth, Patricia had only aged gracefully, managing to retain her kind face and good looks. Where Magnus seemed imposing and intimidating, Patricia appeared as a gentle and approachable woman. Somehow, though, their personalities matched like a charm – despite the outward appearance, she was a taskmaster at the very best, and could even cow her husband on certain issues. The incident with Sophie Moreau had proved that point quite well.

She, too, had chosen to deck herself up in her most fashionable robes: silver-grey satin robes which matched her eyes, silver shoes, and a red purse that clearly cost more than what it was holding in gold at the moment.

Even though he had missed them, Cassius approached his parents with a slight amount of trepidation. There was no telling what the Warringtons would do or say to each other, even in public.

'Hello, Father,' said Cassius. 'Hello, Mother.'

Magnus gave his son an inscrutable look, just as his mother opened her arms and hugged Cassius lightly.

'How are you, Cassius?' she asked him, tearing his attention away from his father to her. She cupped his cheek in her hand. 'Are you well?'

'I am, Mother,' he replied. 'And you?'

'We have seen better days,' she said, 'but we will be fine.'

His father still had not said anything – not even a 'hello'. The older Warrington continued to gaze at Cassius, as his mother began asking him about the Tournament and school.

'Give him a minute, Patricia.'

The deep baritone of Magnus interrupted his wife's questions; she narrowed her eyes, but fell silent. Cassius looked over at his father, who was still staring at him. Not for the first time, Cassius decided to be the better man.

'You look well, Father,' he remarked.

Magnus gave a short, extremely quick smirk – the kind that was noticeable to no one except the Warringtons, who knew what to expect. 'Your mother is right – we have seen better days.'

'Didn't you go to St. Mungo's?'

'The Healer there is a second-rate –'

'Your father didn't like him,' said Patricia, cutting in and cutting short her husband's words. 'He was making a fool of himself, that Healer. Didn't even know where to start from.'

'Like I said, a second-rate –'

'We get the picture, dear,' said Patricia. 'There is no need to lambast them here as well.'

Cassius smirked at his mother, as Magnus fell silent, looking slightly peeved.

Just then, a call of 'Surprise!' came from behind him; turning, he spotted Mrs Weasley, with a big smile on her face, giving Harry a hug and a motherly kiss on his cheek. The tall boy – Bill – then shook Harry's hand with a grin, saying something which caused Harry to go slightly red.

 _Never one for praise, that chap._

Cassius smiled as Harry continued the conversation with Bill and Mrs Weasley; Harry had told him about the Weasleys being like his second family – his first, unfortunately, being the Muggles he was staying with – so he felt grateful that they had come to support Harry in the third task. Out of the corner of his eye, Cassius noticed Fleur Delacour eyeing the ex-Head Boy of Hogwarts over her mother's shoulder, and smirked.

 _Someone worthy of the Veela's affection._

He turned back to his parents, who had observed his gaze and smile at Harry. He did not know if he should introduce Harry to them – for all he knew, they might not take too kindly to the Gryffindor's inadvertent selection as the fourth champion of Hogwarts, and reducing the limelight on Cassius. The fact that Rita Skeeter had made Harry out to be the only Hogwarts champion – with no mention of Cassius in the article – could have stoked the fire too.

'So that's Mr Potter,' remarked Patricia. Her tone gave nothing away as to her feelings towards the young boy.

'Yes,' said Cassius shortly. In a split second, he decided not to offer more information about Harry unless he was asked about it. In any case, there was always the post-Tournament period for introductions.

'He seems…young.'

Cassius rolled his eyes. 'He is fourteen, Mother.'

'Yes, but even so…he looks terribly underfed.'

He did not disagree with that: Harry always looked as though he was not eating enough. Of course, his oversized, baggy Muggle clothes had also contributed to that impression – a topic which he refused to discuss with anyone when it had been brought up during one of their practice sessions – but even in his robes, there was always the feeling that Harry could eat more.

 _Trust a mother to notice such things._

'He stays with the Weasleys?' asked Magnus in a low voice. Just like his voice, his tone did not betray his sentiments, if he harboured any at the time, towards the Weasleys or Harry.

'Sometimes, during the summers,' said Cassius. 'Otherwise, it's with his Muggle relatives.'

Magnus and Patricia raised their eyebrows at that. 'Muggles?'

They watched as the Weasleys and Harry – all of them sporting hearty grins – exited the chamber into the Great Hall.

'His mother's sister, apparently,' explained Cassius. 'He doesn't like to speak of them too much.'

'Yet, you know quite a bit about him,' observed Magnus.

Cassius hesitated. 'We…we have had interactions,' he said at last.

Cassius knew his father was no fool – he would see through the attempted downplay at once. Sure enough, Magnus' eyes narrowed, but mercifully for Cassius, he did not comment, or raise any objections.

He took the opportunity to introduce his parents to the other champions and their families. The conversations were short, formal, and rather stiff: none of the families, the Warringtons included, wanted to stay too long in the chamber; none of them wished to lose out on time with their children either.

Cassius led his parents out of the room soon afterwards, waving to Fleur and Krum as he left. Once outside, they decided to pay a visit to Dumbledore – a courtesy call, more than anything else – after which they spent time with Professor Snape, who had just completed the invigilation of the second-year Potions exam.

By the time they had finished their discussion with Snape, the lunch break had rung, so they made their way back to the Great Hall, and joined his friends for lunch at the Slytherin table. The Warringtons knew Terence and Adrian already, as the boys had come over more than once during the summers; but the fact that Iris Parkinson was dating their son was news to them.

'Father, Mother, this is my girlfriend, Iris Parkinson,' he said, introducing Iris to them before they sat down at the table.

In accordance with traditional pure-blood customs, Iris did a short curtsey to his parents, then extended her hand to shake with Patricia first. 'It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Warrington. Cassius has told me so much about you.'

Patricia smiled gently, her eyes flicking to her son for a fraction. 'That is very kind of you, although it would have been nice if he had told us about you, too.'

Iris gave a short laugh, but it was more out of politeness than anything else. Cassius resisted the urge to groan at his mother – did she have to embarrass him right now?

Iris extended her hand to Magnus next. 'It is a pleasure to meet you too, Mr Warrington.'

If Magnus had noticed the lack of the second sentence from Iris – that Cassius had not spoken about him to her – he did not show it. He nodded, shook her hand gently, and let go.

An awkward silence descended over the four of them, even as the noise from the background increased, as the students trooped into the Hall for lunch, celebrating the end of their exams. Cassius finally broke it, and asked his parents to take their seat at the Slytherin table next to Adrian and Terence, who greeted them cheerfully.

'Well, that went well,' said Iris, looking at Cassius.

'Could've been worse,' said Cassius. 'Mother'll ask you dozens of questions when you're at home, I'm sure of it.'

Iris gave him an odd look. 'At home?'

'Well, yeah, you will come over to visit, won't you?'

'Oh!' said Iris, as she understood. 'Oh, of course I will.'

Cassius frowned slightly. 'What did you think I meant?'

Iris let out an embarrassed giggle. 'I thought…well, I thought you meant we were moving in together.' She had turned a delicate shade of red by the time she finished her sentence.

Cassius stared at her, but then smirked knowingly. 'Already lusting after me, are you?'

'Don't push it, love,' Iris said, a little too sweetly. Cassius recognised the warning sign immediately, and backtracked at once.

'I said nothing,' he said, raising his arms in mock surrender.

'Good answer,' she said, giving him a grin and wink, and they joined his parents and friends for lunch.

They whiled away the time after lunch with a walk around the expansive school grounds and the Black Lake. Cassius pointed out the places where they had had the first task with the dragons, and the banks of the lake from which they had jumped in to rescue their hostages for the second task.

'Impressive,' remarked Magnus, as he recounted his exploits. 'Quite impressive.'

That was about as close to a compliment as he would ever get from his father, so Cassius nodded gratefully. 'Thank you, Father.'

'And the third task…it is a maze, you say?'

'Yes, it's at the Quidditch Pitch. Come, I'll show you.'

Soon, it was time for the evening feast, so they began making their way back to the Great Hall. As they approached the stone steps, however, Magnus held Cassius back. Patricia looked at the two Warrington men, but Magnus waved her on.

'Go,' he said. 'I need to speak with Cassius.'

Patricia left without comment. Cassius turned to face his father, who was staring up at the many turrets and towers of Hogwarts castle.

'I owe you an apology.'

If Cassius had not been looking at his father, he would have highly doubted that the latter had spoken. As it was, he was quite shocked at what he had just heard.

'Father, what –?'

'Your mother spoke to me about my actions during our last Christmas at Warrington Manor.'

Cassius froze, immediately recognising what he was talking about. He did not want to relive it – especially not today, of all days.

'Father, I don't –'

'Cassius,' said Magnus, and his son fell silent at once. Magnus looked at him. 'I was wrong to suggest that Miss Moreau be killed.'

Cassius said nothing. The words were all well and good, but it seemed to him as if they were a good fourteen months too late.

'I suppose it would have been easier if you two had split up when she left for the United States of America.'

Cassius doubted if that would have happened – although it had never come as a point of discussion, he knew he would have been willing to do a long-distance relationship with her.

'I was blinded by my rage, Cassius, and I overreacted. For that, I apologise.'

Cassius honestly did not know what to say. The apology was warranted, yes, but it was long overdue. Where was all of this eight months ago, when he had returned from Hogwarts for the summer and spent the entire time avoiding his father, and missing Sophie?

The wording of his father's apology caught his attention, however.

'You still do not approve of my choice,' he said. It was not a question.

Magnus shook his head. 'You know my stand on this, Cassius. I would not have permitted you to marry a Muggle-born, even if she was a bright witch.'

Cassius' heart sank a little. He had half-hoped for a change in his father's stance on mixing with Muggle-borns and half-bloods, but those had been dashed as quickly as they had arisen.

 _ **At least he didn't refer to her as a…that.**_

 _Small consolation._

He did not say anything – no outward acceptance or rejection of his father's apology, if one could term it as that. It made no difference to him, especially when the ultimate goal of his father had not changed.

'Miss Parkinson is a fine young woman,' his father said, after a few minutes. 'You have chosen well.'

Cassius felt a small wave of rage tide over him, and he fought to keep it under control.

'She is not a girl whom one chooses, Father,' he said. 'I am lucky to be with her.'

'Be that as it may…' said his father, who clearly had not acknowledged his son's words. 'Your union will be beneficial for both the Parkinsons, and for us.'

Cassius almost scoffed out loud at that: a union? They had barely been dating for three, four months – they were not even ready for living together, let alone a union!

A sudden gust of wind blew across the grounds, catching them unawares and causing Cassius to shiver slightly. He made a mental note to wear a cloak before heading out onto the Quidditch Pitch for the third task.

He turned to leave, but Magnus stopped him once more. 'Wait – there is one more thing.'

Cassius turned back slowly.

'I have heard rumours,' his father began, his voice quite low, 'that the Dark Lord is gathering his strength once more. The Mark is darkening as well.'

Cassius did not comment, nor did he face his father, lest his expression betray him. He had certainly heard of those rumours – from Mr Crouch's insane babbling, to Harry's statement that even Dumbledore thought so, too.

'Should he return, it would be most beneficial for all of us, Cassius.'

 _Beneficial? What is he thinking?_

'You are seventeen already, and on the brink of winning the Triwizard Tournament. You may wish to consider –'

'– joining the Dark Lord?' asked Cassius at last, giving an incredulous expression to his father. 'You want me to join him?'

'You are now an adult, so I have no say in the matter before the Dark Lord,' said Magnus, 'but I think it would be better if you joined him voluntarily. He will, of course, wish for you to do the same…'

Cassius shook his head. 'This is insane, Father. Even if I join him – and that's a big IF – it would mean a life time of service, or death. If I don't join him, it's death – but at least I can stand for what I believe in!'

'Don't be ridiculous,' said Magnus dismissively. 'The Dark Lord would never kill you. You are a pure-blood from the noble House of Salazar Slytherin – he would never touch you.'

Cassius gaped at him. 'Are you so naïve, Father? This is the Dark Lord we're talking about – the one who tried to kill a baby! What makes you certain he would not think twice about murdering me, or Mother, or even you?'

'I am certain of it,' said Magnus, in a tone Cassius knew as his father's final, no-arguments-accepted tone. There was no way his father's opinion could be changed now. 'I urge you to reconsider your decision. We shall discuss this after the Tournament is over.'

And without saying anything further, his father strode off and climbed the stone steps to the castle, his dark blue robes billowing slightly in his wake. Cassius remained at his place, his mind fuming, before following his father.

 _He is insane. This is insane._

 _ **I think we've established that fact pretty clearly by now.**_

 _How does he expect me to join the Dark Lord? How can he? And he thinks it would be beneficial!_

…

 _I can't believe him!_

 _ **Let's worry about this later. You have the third task coming up in two hours – don't lose your focus.**_

 _Yes, but –_

 _ **Third task. Triwizard champion. Focus.**_

He sighed, acknowledging the wisdom of his inner voice. He had more pressing things to focus on right now – he could wait until the end of the Tournament to discuss this.

In any case, he reassured himself as he greeted Iris with a quick kiss, and loaded his plate with food from the spread before him, he only needed to worry about this if the Dark Lord returned.

 _That's not going to happen any time soon._

* * *

The Quidditch Pitch was completely unrecognisable.

The hedges were now twenty feet high, and ran all the way around the edge of the Pitch, where it met the spectator stands. There was a gap in front of where they stood: the entrance to the vast maze. The passage beyond it looked dark and creepy. Every now and then, a gust of wind would blow across the maze, and they could hear – rather than see – the pattern of the hedges changing in tandem.

Cassius looked around, his heart thumping in his chest, and his stomach doing odd flip-flops. This was it: months of effort, preparation, and competition came down to this one final act. It would all be over once he got through the maze. Even if he did not win – although he still harboured hopes of that happening – it would be over, and things would be back to normal. He would be able to spend time with Iris, focus on his N.E.W.T.s (although that was not the most exciting prospect), play Quidditch with his friends…

Iris slipped her small hand into his larger one, and gave it a squeeze; she then rested her head on his shoulder. Cassius smiled, grateful for the comfort.

The sky was a deep, clear blue now, and the first stars were starting to appear. Professors Hagrid, Moody, McGonagall, and Flitwick came walking into the stadium and approached the champions, and Ludo Bagman, who was standing with them. They were wearing large, red, luminous stars on their vest, all except Professor Hagrid, who had his on the back of his moleskin vest.

'We are going to be patrolling the outside of the maze,' said Professor McGonagall to the champions. 'If you get into difficulty, and wish to be rescued, send red sparks into the air, and one of us will come and get you, do you understand?'

Cassius and the others nodded.

'Off you go, then!' said Bagman brightly to the four patrollers.

'Good luck, Harry,' whispered Professor Hagrid, and the four of them walked away in different directions, to station themselves around the maze. Cassius watched Moody as he went, his wooden foot making its distinctive _clunking_ noise. Had it really been him – had he, Cassius, heard that sound two months ago, when he had been with Mr Crouch? Had Moody been the one to Stun him?

He had no time to ponder on these questions, however: Bagman was giving them a minute to get their good-luck wishes, before moving them a step forward, for better visibility from the stands.

Iris engulfed him in a fierce hug. 'Come back to me, safely,' she whispered. Cassius noticed that her hands were trembling slightly.

'I will,' he told her. He pulled back, placed his hand under her chin, lifted her face, and kissed her. It was not like the usual steamy, romantic kisses they had shared before – this was one laced with reassurance, hope, and an unspoken promise.

 _I'll be back. Don't worry._

They broke apart, and, after another embrace, Iris stepped away. Her eyes were full of worry, but she gave a tremulous smile, then headed for the stands to sit next to Adrian, Terence, and his parents. Cassius dimly noted that even Daphne and her two friends, Zabini and Davies, were seated in the row just behind Adrian.

He moved forward to the place indicated by Bagman, and was joined by Harry, Fleur, and Krum. All of them looked visibly nervous.

Bagman pulled out his wand, pointed it at his throat, muttered, ' _Sonorus_ ', and his magically magnified voice echoed into the stands.

'Ladies and gentlemen, the third and final task of the Triwizard Tournament is about to begin! Let me remind you how the points currently stand! Tied in first place, with eighty-seven points each – Mr Cassius Warrington and Mr Harry Potter, both of Hogwarts School!' The cheers and applause sent birds from the Forbidden Forest fluttering into the darkening sky. 'In second place, with eighty-four points – Mr Viktor Krum, of Durmstrang Institute!' More applause. 'And in third place – Miss Fleur Delacour, of Beauxbatons Academy!'

Cassius saw Harry waving up at Mrs Weasley, Bill, Ron, and Hermione, who had been applauding Fleur politely, halfway up the stands.

'So…on my whistle, Harry and Cassius!' said Bagman. 'Three – two – one –'

He gave a short blast on his whistle, and Cassius and Harry entered the maze to thunderous applause from the stands.

The towering hedges cast black shadows across the path, and, whether because they were so tall and thick or because they had been enchanted, the sound of the surrounding crowd was silenced the moment they entered the maze. Cassius had the unnerving sensation as though he were underwater again. He pulled out his wand and muttered, ' _Lumos_ ', just as Harry did the same.

After about fifty yards, they reached a fork. They looked at each other.

'Stay safe, Harry,' said Cassius.

'You too,' Harry replied, and took the left fork. Cassius watched him go for a moment, before taking the right path.

He plodded on his path, wand held high over his head so that the light from its tip spilled out in front of him, illuminating his steps. The whistle sounded again, indicating Krum's entrance into the maze. He took a left at the next fork, then a right…then another left, and one more left – and hit a dead end. Cursing, he retraced his steps back to the previous turning, and took the other path.

And almost ran into an Erumpent.

 _Just my luck._

The large beast, thankfully, was facing away from him; its long, rope-like tail was swishing from side to side as it grunted and snorted at something in front of it. Cassius knew just enough about Erumpents to have the presence of mind not to provoke it. Oh, and never touch its horn.

Carefully and quietly, so as to not startle the beast, he crept along the edge of the path. Brambles and branches from the hedge pricked and prodded at his side; he could feel his robes getting caught, and more than once, he had to tug fiercely to get himself loose.

After what seemed like ages, he reached the other side of the path, beyond the Erumpent. He looked back, catching a glimpse of its pulsing horn and tiny eyes, before hurrying up the path, and taking the next left turn.

Bagman's whistle sounded for the third time: Fleur Delacour had entered the maze at last.

After about fifty yards, a sudden gust of wind blew across, buffeting his robes and making him shiver. He looked around him, wondering where the wind had come from, when suddenly, a low, rumbling noise reached his ears, coupled with breaking branches and crumbling twigs…

He turned back, just in time to see the hedges behind him begin to merge together, closing the entrance to the path.

 _Bugger._

Cassius, quite literally, sprinted for his life: the end of the path was still a good hundred yards away – he ran, even as the hedges closed up behind him at an alarming rate – fifty…forty…twenty…

He reached the end just as the last hedges of that path joined together, effectively sealing it off. He checked his person – his wand was still in his hand, but his robes were a veritable mess: they were torn and ripped at the shoulder and chest areas; he could feel a spot near his abdomen where a particularly sharp bramble had pricked him – sure enough, a trickle of blood was dripping from the wound.

He cursed, pointing his wand at the spot and saying ' _Episkey_ '. The wound resealed itself, and the bleeding stopped. It was not much, but it would have to do.

He looked around – where there had been four other paths to go on, there were now only two to choose from. He placed his wand flat on his palm, and whispered to it, _'Point Me'_.

The wand spun around in his palm and pointed to his left, into solid hedge. That way was north, and he knew that he needed to go northwest for the centre of the maze, where the Triwizard Cup was placed.

Neither of the two paths available to him, however, were heading northwest-ward: one was east, straight ahead of him, while the other was south-west. Considering his options, the best he could do was to go east, and then hope to go left and backwards as soon as possible.

He hurried forward, wary of a sudden potential change in the shape of the maze, that could possibly trap him. He had not gone more than ten yards, however, when a scream shattered the silence.

A very feminine scream.

 _Fleur Delacour._

He ran forward, jumping over twigs and branches strewn across the ground – remnants from the last shift of the maze. The scream appeared to have come from somewhere on his left – quite close, in fact. The next fork, mercifully, had a path veering to the left, which he approached – slowly, at first, but once the light from his wand showed him that it was clear, he sprinted along as quick as possible.

He turned the next corner, and came face to face with Sophie Moreau.

Cassius froze in shock. What was Sophie doing _here_ , in the maze, of all places?

'Sophie?' he asked, his voice shaking and panting slightly. 'What're you doing here?'

She did not answer at once. After a moment, she raised her right hand slowly, and pointed at him.

'You lied to me,' she said. Her voice was scratchy, as though it had been unused for a long time.

'I – what?'

'You lied to me!' she said, even louder this time. She began walking towards him; he stepped back a few paces, completely flummoxed.

'What's going on?'

'I hate you! I HATE YOU!'

He stumbled, landing on his back on the hard ground; she was almost on top of him; her hand plunged into her – robes?

 _Sophie never wore robes – not if she could help it._

He looked up, and instead of Sophie, saw Iris' face, twisted into an ugly, nasty expression.

' _Iris?_ '

And then it hit him.

 _ **It's a Boggart!**_

' _Riddikulus!_ ' he said, thinking of the joke Terence had shared with him not two days ago.

The Sophie-Boggart immediately transformed into a bright green leprechaun, which began dancing impishly, and uttering hilariously crude words. Another round of the curse, and the Boggart vanished in a wisp of spoke.

Cassius slumped backwards, his head finding the hard ground below, and took a couple of deep breaths. He had not encountered a Boggart in a really long time – his fear seemed to have changed since then, to Sophie accusing him of lying, which then warped into Iris declaring that she hated him.

 _My worst fear._

He sat up, wiping his face with the sleeve of his robes. Looking around, he noticed another two paths to go on, apart from the one he had just come on, and the path from which the Boggart had emerged.

It hit him suddenly that he had not been able to locate Fleur – there had been utter silence after her scream, except for his encounter with the Boggart. Was she alright? He had forgotten the exact direction to where he had assumed the scream to have come from – try as he might, he could not recall it, not when another, more important thought crossed his mind.

 _One champion down. More chances of winning this thing._

He stood up and used the Four-Point Spell again – it told him he had to take another left turn, which he did. He felt a bit exhausted: the experience with the Boggart had affected him mentally more than physically, and it had taken its toll.

And so, he trudged along, using the Four-Point Spell every now and then to make sure he was on the right track. Twice he ended up in dead-ends, and had to backtrack to use another route; twice more, he was forced to run as the maze shifted again, the hedges closing up behind him.

Finally, he reached a more direct path that would lead him to the centre of the maze. He raised his wand a little higher, only for the light from its tip to land on the paws of – was it a lion?

He raised his wand higher, and realised that it was not a lion, but a sphinx. It had the body of an overlarge lion, yes – its clawed paws and tufted tail were proof of that – but its head was that of a woman. She turned her long, almond-shaped eyes upon him as he approached. She was not crouching to pounce, but was pacing from side to side, blocking his path.

Cassius had never met a sphinx before, but he had read about their penchant for riddles, and deadly prowess in defending their treasure. He had no doubt that the treasure in this case was the Triwizard Cup.

The sphinx spoke to him in a deep, hoarse voice.

'You are very near your goal. The quickest way is past me.'

Cassius frowned. 'I doubt you would move so easily.'

She gave him a mysterious smile. 'Your doubt is well-founded. You must first answer my riddle correctly. Answer on your first guess – I let you pass. Answer wrongly – I attack. Remain silent – I will let you walk away from me unscathed.'

Cassius' stomach slipped several notches. He was good at a lot of things, but this was Iris' forte, not his.

He looked back at the path behind him. It had been a long straight walk from the previous fork, and it was the most direct route to the centre. He supposed he could simply walk back without hearing the riddle, and try to find an alternative route, but he was running out of time…

 _Worth the risk._

He turned back to sphinx. 'Okay,' he said. 'Can I hear the riddle?'

The sphinx sat down upon her hind legs, in the very middle of the path, and recited:

' _In a marble hall white as milk_

 _Lined with skin as soft as silk_

 _Within a fountain crystal-clear_

 _A golden apple doth appear._

 _No doors there are to this stronghold,_

 _Yet thieves break in to steal its gold.'_

Cassius gaped at her.

 _What on earth…_

'Could I have it again, a bit more slowly, please?' he asked her, tentatively.

She blinked at him, smiled, and repeated the riddle.

'Okay, so you're looking for something that's being described in this riddle?'

She merely smiled her mysterious smile; Cassius took that as a 'yes'. At his request, she repeated the first two lines.

'A marble hall…that could be Gringotts,' Cassius muttered, 'no, that isn't my guess, hang on…marble hall, lined with _skin_? That's not Gringotts, then… Could I have the next clue, please?'

She repeated the next two lines of the riddle.

'Within a crystal-clear fountain, hmm… Golden apple – where would a golden apple come from in a fountain? That doesn't make sense… could I have that last bit again?'

She gave him the last two lines.

'So no doors…but they break in to get the gold…Hang on…'

The sphinx was eyeing him, her smile still as mysterious as ever.

'If it's not a building,' Cassius said slowly, 'it has to be an object – something that's white, and that needs to be broken to get the gold inside…'

Cassius suddenly smirked. 'Is it an egg?'

The sphinx smiled more broadly. She got up, stretched her front legs, and then moved aside for him to pass.

Cassius grinned at the sphinx, and ran ahead along the path. He hit another fork – _'Point Me!'_ he said hurriedly, and his wand directed him to the one on the left – then a right, another left, and yet another left…

There was light ahead.

The Triwizard Cup was gleaming on a plinth a hundred yards away.

He dashed forward, running as quickly as he could – eighty, seventy yards away…it was still there, it was not a mirage, not a trick, he was going to get there, fifty yards to go – he was almost there – thirty, twenty…

' _Scandalio!'_

The Trip Jinx caught him in the ankles – he fell, luckily, on his side, for he had turned sideways at the sound of the spell – he rolled and skidded, feeling the scrapes on the side of his arm and leg – slightly dazed, and in pain, he looked up to the visage of Viktor Krum.

'Wow, you really know how to play dirty, don't you?' asked Cassius. Krum did not respond – he was staring down at Cassius, as the latter gingerly sat up, checking the scrapes on his arm.

In a sudden movement, Cassius pointed his wand at Krum. _'Expelliarmus!'_

His aim was poor – Krum still held onto his wand – but it did the trick: the Bulgarian was blasted back ten feet into the hedge. Cassius took the opportunity to stand up, even as Krum did so, too, his eyes a little blank and unfocused.

Hang on – _blank? Unfocused?_

' _Crucio!'_

The curse hit Cassius without warning – it was as though white-hot knives were piercing every inch of his skin – the pain was so intense, all-consuming – he was screaming loudly, more than he had ever done so in his life – it hurt so much, _so much_ …

' _Stupefy!'_

The curse was lifted; Cassius lay there on the ground, shaking and twitching…then he realised he was panting, as though he had flat-out run a mile…he tried to sit up, but was unable to; he raised his shaking hands over his face…

Another pair of hands grabbed his own and uncovered his face. 'Are you alright?'

Cassius looked up into the concerned face of Harry; his green eyes were glinting in the light from the Triwizard Cup. Cassius looked him over – his robes were ripped as well, and muddy; one hem of it was smoking, as though it had been caught in a fire.

'Yeah,' Cassius panted slowly, 'yeah, I think so…'

'Can you get up?'

Cassius shook his head, and even that felt like he was using an extraordinary amount of energy. He slumped back onto the ground, his hands over his face again.

'Bloody hell,' he muttered.

A few minutes of silence passed before Cassius stopped shaking, and could sit up once more. He was a little surprised to see Harry still there, sitting beside him.

'I don't believe it,' said Harry shortly. 'I thought he was alright.'

Cassius blinked, and in that instant, he recalled the blank look in Krum's eyes.

'He was cursed,' said Cassius; Harry looked at him in shock. 'He was cursed too – Imperiused.'

'You're sure?'

'Positive. I've seen that blank look before, I…' he trailed off, not wanting to reveal where exactly he had seen a similar look.

'I've seen it too,' said Harry. 'Moody put it on all of us during one Defence class – all of my friends' eyes went blank and unfocused.'

'Exactly,' said Cassius.

They fell silent. The Triwizard Cup twinkled and glowed on their left. Cassius saw Harry looking at it, an unreadable expression on his face.

'You should take it,' he said.

Cassius stared at him.

'You should take it,' Harry repeated. 'You reached it first.'

'I'm fifty feet away, Harry,' retorted Cassius. 'I think it's pretty obvious who reached it first.'

Harry shook his head. 'I was further out from the Cup when I heard Krum. I came through a hedge.' He jerked his thumb behind them; twisting around, Cassius could see a small hole which Harry had presumably climbed through to get to him.

'Doesn't matter,' said Cassius. 'You've saved my life here, you should take the Cup.'

He did not know why he was being this noble and magnanimous about the whole thing. He supposed it was the after-effects of the Cruciatus Curse – maybe his brains were addled – but he felt Harry deserved the win more than he did.

 _And you called him noble in the second task. What a hypocrite._

'You deserve it more than I do – you did brilliantly in all the tasks,' Cassius told him.

'I had help, with both of them,' said Harry. 'I got help for the dragons in the first place.'

'And I got help for the egg too.'

'We're square, then,' said Harry, staring at him. Cassius did not meet his gaze.

 _What are you doing?!_

 _ **Being the better man here.**_

 _Are you daft? The Cup is right there – go for it!_

'You did better than me in the lake – you should have got full marks, and the lead.'

Harry gaped at him. 'I was the only one thick enough to take the song seriously!' he all but shouted. 'What are you even arguing about, Cassius? You've wanted this for ages!'

Cassius shook his head, his resolve steadfast. He was not going to be the winner. Harry had beaten him in all the tasks – he would have, if Karkaroff had not been extremely biased about his scoring. The Gryffindor deserved it.

'I'm not the champion here, Cassius, you are! Hogwarts champion! Stop being a prat and take it!'

'No.'

The word seemed to echo in the path around them. Harry continued to stare at him, an exasperated expression on his face.

A minute later, however, his look changed into one of determination.

'Both of us.'

Cassius started. 'What?'

'We'll take it at the same time. It's still a Hogwarts victory. We'll tie for it.'

Cassius stared at him. Was he saying what he thought he was saying?

'A Hogwarts victory?'

'Yeah,' said Harry. 'Yeah…we've helped each other out, haven't we? We both got here. We'll take it together – a Gryffindor and a Slytherin.' He grinned at that last part.

Cassius couldn't help it – he grinned too. 'I'm tempted to say that's the best idea you've ever had, Harry.'

'Shut up,' said Harry good-naturedly. 'D'you need a hand?'

Cassius took his hand, and Harry pulled him up. His green eyes were filled with a fire Cassius had never seen before.

'C'mon, then.'

Together, they walked towards the plinth where the Cup stood, gleaming and twinkling in the darkness of the maze. Cassius could see his own reflection on one of its panels.

'Ready?' asked Harry. His hand was hovering over one of the handles of the Cup; Cassius imitated him. 'On the count of three, then? One – two – three –'

They both grasped a handle.

Instantly, Cassius felt a jerk somewhere behind his navel; his eyes widened, and as his feet left the ground, he could see Harry's similar expression reflected in the Cup. One single thought penetrated his mind as the Cup pulled them onward in a howl of wind and colour.

 _A Portkey._

* * *

'Where are we?'

Cassius shook his head, looking around even as he helped Harry to his feet.

They had left the Hogwarts grounds completely; they had obviously travelled miles – perhaps hundreds of miles – for even the mountains surrounding the castle were gone. They were standing instead in a dark and overgrown graveyard; the black outline of a small church was visible beyond a large yew tree to their right. A hill rose above them to their left. Cassius could just make out the outline of a fine old house on the hillside.

Cassius looked down at the Triwizard Cup, which was lying at their feet, twinkling innocently.

'Did anyone tell you it was a Portkey?'

Harry shook his head. 'Nope.' He looked around the silent graveyard. 'Is this supposed to be part of the task?'

Cassius looked around too – it was too quiet and eerie to be a normal setting for the task. Plus, if it were part of the task, there had to be some Ministry official around, especially since they were no longer on the school grounds.

'No, this isn't part of the task,' he said at last. He drew his wand. 'Wand out, Harry.'

Harry pulled out his wand, too.

'We need to get out of here,' declared Cassius. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he was being watched. 'We need to get back to Hogwarts.'

'How, though?' Harry asked, his voice shaking slightly. 'D'you know how to Apparate?'

'Nope,' said Cassius. He squinted through the darkness in the direction of the church. 'Maybe we can ask someone there.'

'Okay,' said Harry, a bit of relief creeping into his voice.

A sudden noise stopped them in their tracks. It seemed to be coming from between the graves in the distance, in the direction of the house. Cassius muttered _'Lumos'_ , raising his wand slightly to better illuminate the source of the noise.

It was a person – by the looks of it, they were carrying something in their arms; they drew steadily nearer as they walked between the mass of graves. The person was short, and was wearing a hooded cloak pulled up over his head to obscure his face. As they came nearer, the 'something' in the person's arms seemed like a baby – or was it a bundle of robes?

Cassius looked sideways at Harry, who was sporting a confused, but apprehensive look.

'Who's there?' asked Cassius, his voice sounding a lot stronger than he felt.

The figure did not respond, but continued to come nearer. The light from Cassius' wand did not penetrate the hood, or the bundle in his arms – it was as though an Obscuring Charm had been placed over them.

But as Cassius moved his wand slightly to the left, the light fell upon a marble headstone, just six feet away from them. Cassius blinked, then frowned at the name upon it.

 _TOM RIDDLE_

Cassius heard Harry gasp in horror. The figure was still a good fifteen feet away from the headstone…

'Harry? What –?'

'We need to leave, Cassius!'

Cassius had never heard his friend sound this urgent and fearful before – it made him worried, too. He glanced back at the approaching figure – now only ten feet away…

'What's going on, Harry?'

Without warning, Harry fell onto his knees, his free left hand moving to his forehead – his scar. Almost instantly, Cassius made the connection.

 _The Dark Lord._

'Harry, get out of here!' Cassius yelled, as he raised his wand. _'Stupefy!'_ he shouted, aiming the spell toward the figure.

With surprising agility, the figure raised a wand of his own and batted the curse away. Harry was still on his knees, moaning in agony – his wand had slipped out of his fingers –

Cassius flicked his wand, silently sounding out _'Impedimenta!'_ in his mind, and this time, the figure was hit – it stopped in its tracks, unable to move, as though it had become a statue…

Cassius rushed to Harry's side, crouching, and trying to pull him up, but the Gryffindor refused to budge – either that, or he was unable to. He continued to groan in pain, both his hands covering his forehead now –

The sound of movement reached Cassius' ears before he noticed it out of the corner of his eye – the figure had overcome the Impediment Jinx, and was now coming closer to the pair of them – it was near the marble headstone now –

Cassius raised his wand, but a voice – a high, cold, cruel, voice – spoke, and he hesitated…

' _Kill the spare!'_

Still crouched beside Harry, Cassius saw the figure raise a wand, swish it, and yell the words into the dark night –

' _Avada Kedavra!'_

A flash of blinding green light, a rushing sound, as though a vast invisible something was soaring through the air…

* * *

Terrified of what he was about to see, he opened his stinging eyes.

Cassius Warrington was lying on the ground beside him, wand still clutched in his hand - but his dark eyes were vacant, blank, and expressionless…

He was dead.

* * *

 **Author's Note: I'm sorry. I just – I'm so sorry.**


	11. A New Beginning

**The Other Champion**

 **Chapter 10: A New Beginning**

* * *

 **Author's Note: I will freely admit – Cassius' death hit me hard, even as the author. I welled up inside, and it took a great deal of effort to steady myself.**

 **This is the last chapter in this instalment of 'The Other Champion', which deals with the aftermath. Some of the more sensitive readers may wish to have a tissue on hand – I know I did, and so did my beta reader.**

 **Hope you enjoy reading this chapter, as much as I enjoyed writing it.**

 **Many thanks, once again, to Dorothea Greengrass for beta-reading this chapter, and indeed, this whole story. Thank you so much, Dorothea!**

 **Credits for the general gist of Ron's impromptu speech go to the Tumblr user cinematicnomad.**

* * *

 **Disclaimer: Recognisable portions in this chapter have been taken from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, by J.K. Rowling. I neither own nor intend to make any profit from the use of Harry Potter and the associated characters of the series, in my story.**

* * *

 _ **Previously on "The Other Champion"…**_

 _Terrified of what he was about to see, he opened his stinging eyes._

 _Cassius Warrington was lying on the ground beside him, wand still clutched in his hand - but his dark eyes were vacant, blank, and expressionless…_

 _He was dead._

* * *

'They really should've set up something to allow us to see inside the maze.'

Blaise looked at Tracey. 'Like what – Viewing Charms?'

'What – no, I was thinking video cameras.'

'Video cameras – what's that? Some Muggle thing?'

'Yeah. They could've put video cameras on each champion, and put it on a big screen here, then we could've seen what they were doing.'

Daphne tuned her two best friends out as Tracey launched into an explanation on the workings of the cameras. She instead looked over the maze – a vast network of hedges stretched out over the entirety of the Quidditch Pitch.

Tracy did have a point, though – it was terribly boring, waiting for the champions to battle it out inside, while they just sat there and twiddled their thumbs. In fact, a part of her felt it may prove to be a lot more boring that the second task – at least that had a time limit of an hour, unlike this one.

Probably the only interesting thing that took place was the shift in the maze pattern: every now and then, a gust of wind would blow across the hedges, causing them to shift and move with a terrible groaning and creaking sound, coupled with the harsh cacophony of branches breaking and twigs snapping. But even that, after a few times, got a bit dull.

She gazed around the stands: just as she had expected, most of the spectators looked bored, and were doing other activities to while away the time. The Weasley twins, not surprisingly, had started a betting pool for the final winner, and, having finished with the Gryffindors, were now moving amongst the Ravenclaws and the Beauxbatons contingent. Her eyes moved away from the twins to the Hufflepuffs in the next stand, and then back to her own Slytherin stand, where the Durmstrang students were sequestered in the front rows.

Another gust of wind blew across the maze, followed by the shifting of the hedges once more; as the last few twigs cracked, Daphne idly wondered what sort of magic had been placed over the hedges for such a transformation…maybe Transfiguration? An overpowered, wide-area Charm, perhaps?

Time seemed to pass extremely slowly as they sat there, with no news or information about the champions. Twice, Daphne thought she had seen some movement within the maze, but when she looked again, there was nothing – just her eyes playing tricks on her…

Tracey and Blaise had finished their discussion on cameras, and were now looking around the stands, just as Daphne had done fifteen minutes ago. Bagman had told them about the champions sending up red sparks if they were in trouble – at least those would be visible to us, she thought – but so far, even that had not happened…

Her eyes began to droop slightly; she rested her chin on her palm, trying to convince herself to stay awake till the end – at least until one champion returned from the maze, whether victorious or not…let there be some bit of action, at least…

By the end of that night, she was regretting ever having wished such a thing.

It began with a sudden movement in the row just in front of her that caught her eye: Mr Warrington had suddenly stood up, an unreadable expression on his face as he exchanged a glance with his wife. While this was not out of the ordinary, Daphne's attention was drawn to his unusual actions: he was rubbing his left forearm, as though it was a persistent itch; then, without a word, he turned away from Mrs Warrington and headed for the stairs to the exit of the stadium.

Daphne watched him go until he disappeared from view once he descended the stairs, then looked back at Mrs Warrington, who was still seated alongside Iris Parkinson, Adrian Pucey, and Terence Higgs. The older woman seemed worried – but Iris looked curious. Daphne saw her glance at Adrian and Terence, who both shrugged. Clearly, they had no explanation for Mr Warrington's sudden departure.

'That is odd,' said Blaise, when Daphne pointed it out to him and Tracey.

'Why would he leave?' mused Tracey. 'Cassius is still inside the maze!'

Daphne shook her head, as clueless as they were.

Her sleep somewhat disturbed for the moment, she shifted her gaze to the judges' table to her left. Professor Dumbledore's silver beard gleamed in the fading sunlight, as did Madame Maxime's glamorous opals. The two of them were engaged in a quiet conversation. To their right, Ludo Bagman was grinning away like a schoolboy with a load of Christmas presents; in contrast, however, Cornelius Fudge was sitting quietly, his bowler hat on the table in front of him, and a solemn expression on his face.

The last judge on the table was Igor Karkaroff – Daphne had never seen the Durmstrang Headmaster look this frightened. He was nervously twirling his tiny goatee, his eyes darting around the stadium in obvious fear: twice, she spotted him trying to catch Dumbledore's eye, but without luck.

 _That's odd. What's got his wand in a knot?_

But a few minutes of internal debate yielded nothing, so Daphne went back to staring at the ever changing maze, even as the crowd began to whisper restlessly. Surely the champions should have returned by now?

And then, Tracey, who, for a change, was a lot more observant than Daphne that evening, let out a sudden gasp. Daphne turned a mildly curious gaze towards the direction of Tracey's shocked stare, but a moment later, she was fully alert, with a myriad of emotions swimming inside of her.

Relief, for Harry had returned.

Elation, for he was clutching the Triwizard Cup in his hand.

Confusion, for he was not alone.

Worry, for he was clutching the arm of another person.

Shock, for that other person was Cassius Warrington.

Fear, like an icy stab to the heart, for neither Harry nor Warrington were moving.

The appearance of the champions had triggered a jubilant response from the crowd: there were cheers and delighted yells, stamping of feet and applause, students jumping up and down in glee and joy, still others deciding to make their way down to the Pitch to meet the champions…

The three of them were on their feet too – but Tracey and Blaise had not seemed to notice the fearful look on Daphne's face, busy, as they were, in cheering and clapping for the return of the champions. Daphne tried standing on tip-toe to get a better view of Harry and Warrington –

When the first scream of terror rent the air.

Half the crowd went silent with confusion, with the other half joining in, presuming that it was just another scream of joy –

But then came another, more terrified, scream.

Her heart pounding fiercely in her chest, Daphne began her descent to the Pitch, abandoning all pretence and manners as she pushed and shoved her way between her fellow Slytherins. As she navigated a particularly clustered section, another person tried to push past her – she was not alone.

Iris Parkinson was right behind her, a truly scared expression on her face. Daphne grabbed her hand as the older girl attempted to get down just as quickly.

'Iris!' she said loudly, over the mutters and murmurs that had now begun to sound out from the spectators; they seem confused, bewildered, unsure of what was going on…

Iris turned around, and for a split second, seemed as though she was all ready to curse the person who had grabbed her and stopped her from going down to see Warrington. Her expression softened slightly, but her eyes were still fearful.

Dark brown met brilliant sapphire blue – and an unspoken stream of communication passed between the two girls.

Iris nodded, and with a swift motion, wriggled out of Daphne's grasp – only to grab the younger girl's hand and pull her along down the steps to the Pitch. Students were unceremoniously pushed out of the way as they descended, with hurried apologies uttered by Daphne as she passed them. All the while, her heart thudded with anxiety, and her mind sounded out a prayer:

 _Please let them be alright…please let them be alright…_

Past the third row, second row, beyond the Durmstrang students, and Iris continued to drag her down – they had reached the last flight of stairs leading to the Pitch, and Daphne cast a worried glance at the crowd around Harry and Warrington.

Dumbledore was there, and so was Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic…Professor McGonagall was there, too, as was Professor Flitwick – she could not get a glimpse of either champions amidst the mass of people, but, going by their faces, the news did not seem to be very welcoming – the Professors were whispering, while the Headmaster was crouched over, and the Minister was saying something hurriedly…

They reached the bottom of the stairs, and rushed out onto the Pitch from the covered landing – the grass felt hard and firm under her shoes – they were still a good distance away, but people were still screaming –

'Warrington – _dead_!'

Iris froze at the shout – the dreaded, unexpected announcement – and so did Daphne, in shock and horror. A wave of ice-cold dread swept over her – she turned her astonished, disbelieving eyes upon Iris, who was staring at her, shaking her head…

'No…' she whispered fearfully, 'no…it's not true…it can't be…'

The crowd was getting restless: a ripple flowed through the spectators in the stands, and those who had managed to spill onto the Pitch – one laced with shock, hysteria, and disbelief…

And then the whispers began to flow, one by one – they spread from one person to another, all conveying the same terrifying news that had been shouted out into the Scottish summer night –

Cassius Warrington – one of their own – was dead.

It was as though she was in a trance: Iris' expression became blank; her grip on Daphne's wrist slackened, and she looked on the verge of collapsing onto the ground – Daphne looked at her, calling her name, cajoling her to come back –

Two pairs of arms came into Daphne's vision – Adrian and Terence had arrived; they lifted Iris by the arms, slinging one over each of their shoulders, supporting her weight – for she did not look like she was capable of walking another inch…

And then, Iris came back to the present: her face returned to her earlier expression of shock – she looked around at the two men supporting her, unreadable expressions on their faces – she nodded, and they began to move forward, slowly and steadily, towards the crowd surrounding the Hogwarts champions…

Daphne, too, joined them – the four of them on what seemed like the longest walk of their lives – and as they plodded on, a new prayer filled her mind and heart –

 _Please, let Harry be okay, let Harry be fine…_

And then, four became six: Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger had joined Adrian and Terence; they had become friends, after all – good friends, in fact – and one of their friends was, if the shout and whispers were any indication, no more…

Six became eight: Tracey and Blaise appeared at her side – the former wrapped an arm around Daphne's waist as they reached the crowd, which had thinned slightly; people slowly moved out the way, some sombre, others sobbing, and still others looking as though they wanted the nightmare to end…

And then they reached the centre – the main focus of the people gathered around there: Madame Maxime, Professors Hagrid, Flitwick, McGonagall, Moody, and Snape – the last of whom looked uncharacteristically gloomy…

Headmaster Dumbledore was crouched over a pair of figures on the ground – Daphne could not discern it clearly, but she could remember the sight from up in the stands: Harry, face down, clutching the Triwizard Cup in one hand, his other gripping the forearm of the Slytherin, his fellow champion and friend –

' _Cassius!'_

The scream from Iris was heart-wrenching, painful; Daphne's vision became blurred with tears as her senior – the wonderful, amazing, charming Iris Camille Parkinson – stumbled forward and collapsed onto the ground next to the body of her boyfriend; she was sobbing uncontrollably, gasping and wailing words into the dark night –

'No – no – Cassius, _CASSIUS!_ Wake up, love, you promised you'd come back – you _promised!_ '

And the tears fell from everyone around – Weasley's arms were around Granger, who was crying into the red-head's shoulder; Blaise had imitated Weasley's actions with Tracey, while Adrian and Terence were supporting each other, tears streaming down their faces as they stared into the blank, vacant eyes of their best friend…

'You can't break a promise - you can't do this, Cassius, wake up, _wake up!_ '

Dumbledore had managed to convince Harry to let go of Cassius' body; with extraordinary strength for a man so old and thin, he had bent even lower and raised Harry from the ground and set him on his feet – but they did not want to support him: he, too, looked on the brink of falling again –

Daphne did not think twice. Eyes still blurry with tears, she rushed forward and grabbed Harry's shoulder; her one arm slid around his waist, trying to hold him steady and upright. She looked sideways at him – he looked terrible, as though he had been through hell and back: his green eyes were dull and lifeless, the look of someone who had seen too much, and wanted it to end…wanted someone to help him…to do something…

'No, Cassius, you aren't supposed to go – you can't go – you can't be gone –'

The crowd around them was getting thicker; attracted, no doubt, by the cries of Iris, and the sight of so many people standing and crying, students were coming closer to have a look, to see what they had only heard of till now – their champions had returned, but only one was alive…

Harry swayed on the spot, as though giddy; he looked around and spotted Daphne at his side – she saw his eyes widen slightly in recognition, as though he was looking at her for the first time –

'Daphne…' he croaked softly, and her heart broke at the sound.

'I'm here, Harry,' she said, 'I'm right here…'

'Cassius, please – please – wake up, love…'

The crowd was pressing against them now: Professors Hagrid, McGonagall, and Flitwick were trying to herd them back to the stands, away from the scene –

The voice of Cornelius Fudge, who had been to the side, broke through. 'Dumbledore, Harry needs to get to the hospital wing, he's not well –'

 _Clunk. Clunk._

'I'll take him, Dumbledore,' came Moody's growl, 'I'll take him to the hospital wing – c'mon lad –' He turned to Harry and Daphne, and manoeuvred the Gryffindor to put his arm around his shoulder. 'Come on laddie, let's go –'

Daphne watched helplessly – who was she to argue with Professor Moody – as Harry was half-lifted, half supported in his walk away from the scene by the Defence Professor; she turned back just in time to see Professor Dumbledore in conversation with Fudge –

'Daphne?' came a trembling voice, 'where is Harry?'

It was Granger; she had extricated herself from Weasley and was standing in front of her, the lanky red-head a few feet away, looking around; somehow, Dumbledore did not hear the question, engrossed as he was in explaining something to Fudge, but every student in the vicinity – even Iris, Adrian, and Terence – caught his words, and looked around them, trying to spot their friend – but there was no sign of his jet-black hair –

'Professor Moody took him to the hospital wing,' she replied slowly.

'Moody?' It was Iris; her eyes were red from crying, but she looked like she could not cry anymore. One hand was around Cassius' wrist, with the other holding onto Adrian.

Iris got up slowly; immediately, Terence stepped forward to help support her, but she waved him off – her grip on Adrian tightened visibly as she looked at Daphne, then turned to the two boys next to her. A sort of silent communication passed between the three of them.

Granger and Weasley were staring at the Slytherin sixth-years in confusion, and so were Tracey and Blaise. None of them had any idea what was going on.

'Hermione…' It was Iris again. She looked at the bushy-haired Gryffindor, who stared right back. A moment passed, and then –

'Moody,' muttered Granger, and her face sported an expression Daphne had seen many a times before in the confines of classrooms – the one which meant that she had solved a problem, and was going to do something about it.

Before Daphne could open her mouth to ask what was going on, Granger had grabbed Weasley's arm, and was hurrying out of the stadium. Seconds later, Terence set off after them, his wand in his hand. Perplexed, Daphne looked back at Iris, who was kneeling down next to Cassius' body, a tender yet sad expression on her face.

'For you, Cassius,' she said, and she leaned forward and kissed his forehead softly; then, she stood up, and, still holding onto Adrian, followed Terence and the Gryffindors out of the stadium.

 _What in the name of Merlin…_

Daphne exchanged bewildered glances with Tracey and Blaise, but they were both sporting nonplussed expressions.

 _What is going on?_

The professors were still trying to push the crowd back, away from Cassius. Dumbledore was talking to Fudge, who was twirling his lime-green bowler hat in visible annoyance. Not one of them seemed to have noticed that Harry Potter had been taken away by Moody, and his friends were also missing…

Her mind made up, Daphne turned on her heel and walked quickly towards the exits. She had moved so suddenly that she was already outside by the time Tracey and Blaise caught up with her.

'Where – are – we – going?' panted Tracey, as they hurried across the grounds to the looming castle in front of them.

Daphne did not respond immediately – she had spotted the silhouettes of the three Slytherins up ahead in the fading light; further beyond them, the figures of Weasley and Granger were just about visible, partly due to the lights streaming out from the vaunted windows of the Entrance Hall. She sped up, half-jogging, half-running now, Tracey and Blaise panting to keep up with her…

They took the stone steps two at a time, rushing into the Entrance Hall just in time to see Iris, Adrian, and Terence rushing up the marble staircase. The torches and candles around the Entrance Hall cast long shadows as they followed; in the distance, they could hear Granger and Weasley noisily climbing another set of stairs.

'Daphne – wait –' but Tracey's pleas fell on temporarily deaf ears – Daphne was no longer paying attention to the strained gasps from her friends, intent as she was on catching up with Iris, a mere flight of stairs ahead –

Up the stairs, along a corridor, up yet another – on they went, until Daphne finally realised their destination, and dimly wondering why she had not figured it out earlier –

Granger and Weasley were standing outside the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, wands out and faces slightly red from the sudden sprint across the grounds and in the castle; behind them, Iris and the two boys slowly made their way along the corridor, Terence bending over and panting as they reached the Gryffindors.

The sixth-year Slytherin girl looked back at Daphne, signalling her to come along quietly. It was a good thing too, for Tracey and Blaise, who had just turned up, had opened their mouths to question what was going on, but were silenced immediately by Iris' gesture. They crept up to join their seniors and classmates, even as Daphne's mind raced to figure out why they were outside this classroom, of all places…

* * *

Harry stared at Moody. He just didn't see how this could be…Dumbledore's friend, the famous Auror…the one who had caught so many Death Eaters…It made no sense…no sense at all…

The foggy shapes in the Foe-Glass were sharpening, had become more distinct. Harry could see the outlines of three people over Moody's shoulder, moving closer and closer. But Moody wasn't watching them. His magical eye was upon Harry.

But then, there were more than three – the shapes were now clearer, much clearer than before, and there were now eight people in the Foe-Glass, and one of them had the tell-tale head of bushy hair…

* * *

' _Bombarda!'_

The combined effect of the spell yelled by Weasley and Adrian – two of the most powerful spell-casters in the group – caused the door of the office to blast open: splinters and chunks of wood flew about in all directions, with dust and debris floating around and shrouding the occupants of the room.

Two jets of red light shot out from within the cloud of dust, catching Adrian and Terence, the latter of whom had moved forward to stand alongside his friend – they both fell to the floor, unmoving, but still alive, if their rising and falling chests were any indication –

Another curse whizzed past her ear, drawing her attention to the clearing dust before them. Granger raised her wand and did a complicated little manoeuvre, and the cloud disappeared, revealing an enraged looking Mad-Eye Moody and a drained-out, frightened Harry Potter.

' _Avada Kedavra!'_

' _No!'_

Daphne felt herself being tackled to the floor, just as the jet of sickly green light passed through where she had been standing a mere moment ago – with a groan, for her shoulder was now sore from the landing, she looked up to meet the worried, yet relieved gaze, of Blaise.

A flurry of spells, yells, and shouts, followed by another _'NO!'_ , and then, there was silence. Still on the floor, her shoulder now quite painful, she managed to pull herself to a sitting position, with Blaise having rolled off her moments ago.

The office was a mess – shelves were either broken or destroyed completely, with wooden splinters scattered around on the floor; the many instruments on the desks were also on the floor, some shattered beyond repair, while others bent awkwardly – as was the case for the squiggly golden wire. There was, however, a large mirror hanging on the wall that had survived – it did not reflect the room, but was showing the figures of eight people – including her.

She did not allow her confusion to take over, however: her eyes had fallen on Harry, who was standing with his wand raised, pointing at something on the floor; a second later, she realised it was Moody, unconscious and immobile.

Around her, there was movement: Granger was helping Iris to her feet, while Weasley was trying to revive Adrian and Terence; Tracey stepped forward, tentatively, and he welcomed the assistance. Blaise was next to her, also on the floor.

A wand clattered to the floor – Daphne looked back to see Harry stumble over to Granger and Iris, who both hugged him tightly; and then Weasley, Adrian, and Terence joined in, all of them clutching onto each other for silent, much-needed, support –

Then they broke apart, and his eyes met hers; automatically, even as she remained on the floor, she opened her arms as though inviting him, welcoming him to her – and he willingly obliged, slowly treading forward before kneeling down and leaning into her embrace.

His body shook as her arms wrapped around him, holding him tightly and fiercely, not wanting to let him go – and the tears came, slowly, followed by great, wracking sobs; she tried to comfort him by stroking his hair, whispering into his ear – but what do you tell someone who witnessed the death of his friend?

Behind Harry, Iris was crying as well – her face was buried in Adrian's shoulder, even as he tried to stem the flow of his own tears.

The reality that had eluded them from the time they left the Quidditch Pitch hit them once more, and this time, there was no denying it, no running away from it –

They had lost one of their own.

 _But how?_

The small voice of reason and logic raised the question in Daphne's mind, and as Harry's sobs subsided, the doubt only increased. How had Cassius died?

She pulled back and looked at Harry in the eye – they were still dull, but not as much as they had been on the Pitch. She continued to stare at him, questioning, seeking the answer…

 _How did he die?_

Harry raised his head to match her gaze, and his next words sent a shockwave throughout the entire group.

'Voldemort killed him. He's back.'

* * *

The last few weeks of term were the most surreal in the nearly four years Daphne had spent in Hogwarts School. She had, at the time, felt that the aftermath from the Chamber of Secrets saga was bizarre, but the post-Tournament reaction seemed to have topped it, without contest.

 _Especially with the Ministry's position._

Daphne had always thought that the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Oswald Fudge, was a bumbling idiot of a wizard, but an extremely astute and self-serving politician. Now, after the Minister's outrageous act of administering the Dementor's Kiss on Barty Crouch Junior – without proper Wizengamot authorisation, she was sure – and his point-blank refusal to accept the return of the Dark Lord, she did not just think so: she knew it to be a fact.

She still marvelled at the idiocy of it all: any person with half a brain, even a Slytherin deeply prejudiced against Harry – would have realised that there was no way for him to have murdered Cassius. Harry was, in the eyes of many, an attention-seeking delinquent, but not a murderer. Especially not one who would murder a good friend of his for the sake of a little glory, in the form of winning the Triwizard Tournament.

Correction: Harry _had been_ perceived as such by many. Not anymore.

The impact of Cassius Warrington's murder at the hands of the Dark Lord had caused more than a few ripples within the enclosed society that was Slytherin House. It was slow, but it was happening: Daphne could see the doubt upon the faces of many of her Housemates, as they discussed the scenes after the third task in hushed whispers. There was no official confirmation on this point, in any case – the _Daily Prophet_ had chosen to attribute Cassius' death as a freak accident – but the truth had no doubt filtered into the confines of the Slytherin common room through the sons and daughters of Death Eaters.

Iris had termed the Prophet's article as 'utter rubbish' and 'a load of dragon dung'. At least, those were some of the kinder, less colourful words she had used. Daphne did not disagree with her.

Speaking of Iris…

Daphne looked across the common room at the older girl, who was seated in her usual place by the fireplace. Adrian was with her, flipping through the pages of a book, but Terence was nowhere to be seen. As she watched, Iris gave a small sigh, putting down her own book and staring into the embers of the dying fire.

Iris had taken Cassius' death quite badly. Indeed, for a few days after the third task, she looked like a pale shadow of her former self. The revelations by Barty Crouch Junior about the elaborate and successful scheme of the Dark Lord to return to power were revolting; Daphne was sure Iris was ready to hex the man to within an inch of his life, if only the Professors had not been around. Underneath the tough exterior was the soft interior – the tender, gentle, warm soul of Iris Parkinson – and it had grieved for days on end, until Adrian had convinced her – through one of her friends – to show her face in public. She had been improving since then, with a good deal of colour returning to her once pale and withdrawn face, but every now and then, she would slip back into reminiscing her times with Cassius, and the future she would never have with him.

The image tugged at Daphne's heart: she could not even imagine the imbroglio of thoughts swimming around in Iris' head, much less think about herself in the same position – with Harry.

Her heart went out to the Gryffindor boy – he had been through so much that year, what with being selected as a Triwizard champion, competing in three difficult tasks, facing ridicule and slander in the form of Rita Skeeter's articles in the _Prophet_ and _Witch Weekly_ , and having to face the Dark Lord, after witnessing his friend's murder. She was amazed he could still put up a brave front – even a front to anyone – after all of it.

Of course, she knew he was struggling: he was rarely seen without Weasley and Granger in the school corridors, and preferred to remain silent in the last few classes they had attended together. Their eyes had met a number of times during lunches and dinners, but it was never for more than a few seconds, before he turned away to his food. Those green eyes of his – normally full of life and sparkling – were almost always dull. She had not had the chance to speak with him about any of it since his last night in the hospital wing, and desperately wished that she could do soon.

Hopefully she would get a chance tomorrow, on the Hogwarts Express back home. Today, however, was for Cassius.

She sighed quietly, brushing off some non-existent dirt from her robes. Professor Snape had showed up in the common room earlier that day to announce that there would be a remembrance of sorts for Cassius during the Leaving Feast that night. There were more than a few solemn looks exchanged after he left: Slytherin House had still not recovered from the shock of losing one of their own. Even now, the room was unnaturally silent, as those who were ready waited for their friends to turn up.

Finally, everyone was ready: as one, they exited the common room and headed to the Great Hall.

The massive Hall was usually decorated with the winning House's colours for the Leaving Feast; tonight, however, as announced by Professor Snape, there were black drapes on the wall behind the teacher's table – a mark of respect for Cassius Warrington. Daphne noticed Iris sniffling as she took her place at the Slytherin table. The rest of the Houses were slowly trickling in – one by one, they arrived and silently sat down at their respective tables, most of them wearing serious expressions.

Daphne had been quite surprised at the reaction of the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs towards Cassius' death: from openly opposing him at the start of the Tournament, it seemed as though they had accepted him as a true Triwizard champion, one worthy of representing the school. The shift had begun at the end of the first task, when Cassius had done quite well against the Swedish Short-Snout; it increased after his resounding success in the second task, but was truly appreciated as he began the third task – especially since he was in the joint lead with Harry. While only a few knew Cassius on a personal level, they had still taken his death as a slight against them – no one was to mess with their school champion.

The Gryffindors were subdued too. Whether it was because of Cassius' death or Harry's ordeal was anybody's guess, but they had not been their usual rambunctious selves ever since the conclusion of the Tournament all those days ago. Indeed, even the Weasley twins were uncharacteristically quiet – although more than one person interpreted it as a sign for a truly epic prank.

She scanned the staff table, her eyes resting on Mad-Eye Moody – the real one, fully recovered after his ten-month imprisonment in his own trunk. He was extremely twitchy, jumping every time someone spoke to him. His paranoia was bound to have increased after that ordeal: Daphne was not sure if that was a good thing or not.

Madame Maxime was still there, talking in quiet tones with Professor Hagrid, but Karkaroff's chair was empty. Daphne had heard rumours of him fleeing for his life after the third task, clearly trying to escape the wrath of the Dark Lord for his lack of loyalty – but these were still unconfirmed rumours, after all.

Professor Dumbledore stood up at the staff table. The Great Hall, which in any case had been less noisy than it usually was at the Leaving Feast, became very quiet.

'The end,' said Dumbledore, looking around at all of them, 'of another year.'

He paused, and his eyes fell upon the Slytherin table, its occupants quiet and subdued.

'There is much that I would like to say to you all tonight,' said Dumbledore, 'but I must first acknowledge the loss of a very fine person, who should be sitting here,' he gestured towards the Slytherins, 'enjoying our feast with us. I would like you all, please, to stand, and raise your glasses, to Cassius Warrington.'

As one, the students and teachers of Hogwarts School, together with the contingents from Beauxbatons Academy, and Durmstrang Institute, rose to their feet, raised their goblets, and echoed in one loud, low, rumbling voice, 'Cassius Warrington.'

Daphne's voice shook slightly as she did so. Down the table, tears were pouring silently down Iris' face, as Adrian gripped her shoulder tightly.

'Cassius was one of the rare people who exemplified the qualities of all the Houses of Hogwarts,' continued Dumbledore. 'He was ambitious, intelligent, a loyal friend, and brave to the very end. His death has affected you all, whether you knew him well or not. I think that you have the right, therefore, to know exactly how it came about.'

Daphne, Tracey, and Blaise looked up at Dumbledore, eyes wide. Over at the Gryffindor table, she noticed Harry doing the same.

 _Surely not…_

'Cassius Warrington was murdered by Lord Voldemort.'

Panicked whispers swept through the Great Hall, as people stared at the Headmaster in disbelief, in horror. They had been forbidden from speaking to Harry and badgering him for details about the events of that night, so they had had nothing to go on except what was reported in the Prophet. Naturally, the gigantic leap from 'freak accident' to 'murder by the most dangerous Dark wizard ever' was a huge shock for many of the students – except the Slytherins.

Most of them knew this, and Dumbledore's statement was merely making it official. It was their reaction, however, that told Daphne – and indeed, the rest of the school – that change was coming. Most of them would not have even dreamt of a scenario where the Dark Lord would have killed someone from his own House. They would have theorised – and indeed, some did do so – that Cassius must have done something to annoy the Dark Lord. Surely, that was the only plausible explanation for this, for there was no way he would kill a pureblood wizard whose father was a Death Eater as well. While these theories were not shot down, they did not pick up steam either.

Soon, they had been forced to come to the terrifying, unspoken conclusion: Cassius was murdered for being at the wrong place, at the wrong time.

Dumbledore calmly waited until the Great Hall lapsed into silence once more.

'The Ministry of Magic,' he continued, 'does not wish me to tell you this. It is possible that some of your parents will be horrified that I have done so – either because they will not believe that Lord Voldemort has returned, or because they think you are too young for this. It is my belief, however, that the truth is generally preferable to lies, and any attempt to pretend that Cassius died as a result of an accident, or some sort of blunder of his own, is an insult to his memory.'

The gaze of every person was focused upon Dumbledore now, each one of them sporting stunned and frightened looks – or in the Slytherins' case, confused ones. With the announcement of the Dark Lord's guilt in killing Cassius, most of them seemed to have lost their bearings. The ship carrying their feelings of loyalty and servitude towards the Dark Lord's cause had run aground, and people were scrambling for shelter and surety.

 _The tide has changed._

'There is somebody else who must be mentioned in connection with Cassius' death,' Dumbledore went on. 'I am talking, of course, about Harry Potter.'

A kind of ripple swept through the Hall – a few heads turned in Harry's direction before flicking back to face Dumbledore.

'Harry Potter managed to escape Lord Voldemort,' said Dumbledore. 'He risked his own life to bring back Cassius' body to Hogwarts. He showed, in every respect, the sort of bravery that few wizards have ever shown in facing Lord Voldemort, and for this, I honour him.'

Dumbledore turned gravely to Harry and raised his goblet once more. Once again, everyone in the Great Hall followed suit – including most of the Slytherins. Daphne noticed, as she murmured Harry's name and drank to him, that Theodore Nott, Vincent, and Gregory had remained in their seats, their goblets untouched. She felt a sudden swoop of annoyance in her stomach.

When everyone had resumed their seats, Dumbledore continued, 'The Triwizard Tournament's aim was to further and promote magical understanding. In the light of what has happened – of Lord Voldemort's return – such ties are more important than ever before.'

Dumbledore looked from Madame Maxime and Hagrid, to Fleur Delacour and her fellow Beauxbatons students, to Viktor Krum and the Durmstrangs at the Slytherin table. Daphne noticed his gaze shifting to the other Slytherins at the table as well.

'Every person in this Hall,' said Dumbledore, and his eyes lingered upon the Durmstrang students, and even some of the Slytherin students, 'will be welcomed back here at any time, should they wish to come. I say to you all, once again – in the light of Lord Voldemort's return, we are only as strong as we are united, as weak as we are divided. Lord Voldemort's gift for spreading discord and enmity is very great. We can fight it only by showing an equally strong bond of friendship and trust. Differences of habit and language are nothing at all if our aims are identical and our hearts are open.'

Dumbledore opened his mouth to continue, but was interrupted as the sound of a bench being pushed back rang around the Hall.

'Professor, I need to say something important.'

The head of every single person in the Great Hall turned, in almost perfect unison, to stare at the now-standing Ron Weasley. Daphne quickly glanced at Harry and Granger: both of them were looking up at their red-headed friend, lost for words and as surprised as everyone else.

If Dumbledore was astonished at the interruption, he did not show it. He merely nodded, and sat back down at his seat, looking expectantly at Weasley.

'Erm…'

Clearly, Weasley had not expected Dumbledore to cede the floor to him so willingly; as it was, he looked distinctly uncomfortable at the sight of every person staring at him, waiting for him to say what he had to say.

A small scoff came from the Slytherin table: looking around, Daphne saw Theodore covering his mouth, as though trying to pass it off as a cough – but his eyes was sparkling mockingly.

As soft as it was, Weasley had heard it. He stared down at Theodore for a good moment, before turning back to Dumbledore.

'I didn't know Cassius particularly well,' he began; Daphne noticed the use of the first name. 'We only became friends over the last two months, Harry here has known him longer.' He indicated Harry with a jerk of his head.

He hesitated a bit – out of nerves, or sudden lack of words, perhaps?

'But I do know how he played,' continued Weasley at last, and his voice was becoming steadier, surer. 'Cassius and Harry were not just competitors, they were friends.'

Every eye was upon him now, if not already there.

'I'll admit, I had my misgivings about him when he was selected,' said Weasley. 'I didn't trust him at first, even when Harry kept telling me he was a good bloke.

'I realise now I was wrong. Cassius was one of the best Slytherins I could've ever met, and I will miss him a lot.

'I'll miss his quips and jokes, his wit and intelligence, his compassion for everyone he knew – Harry, Hermione, Iris –' he nodded at Iris, who smiled back at him through her tears, 'but I think the most important thing I'll miss is the way he played.'

Weasley stared at Dumbledore, who looked back with an inscrutable expression. 'He played fair – he played to win, but didn't want to do it through underhanded means.' He looked around the Hall, and Daphne could see the confidence building inside of him. 'You all remember the badges before the first task – he didn't take one. He could have done anything to Harry throughout the Tournament, but he didn't. I mean –' and surprisingly, his voice broke a little, 'he even trained and helped Harry with the more difficult spells before the third task, when he could've easily upped and abandoned him.

'He wanted to win,' he repeated, 'but not at the cost of Harry's loss. He wanted Harry to win, too. And I know Harry wanted him to win as well –' he looked down at Harry, who nodded, a few tears streaking down his cheeks, 'but neither of them wanted to sabotage the other.'

Beside him, Granger's face was tear-streaked too, but she was gazing up at him with adoration and pride.

'He was a true champion, Professor,' said Weasley. 'A true champion of Hogwarts. And he died being that champion – the one who plays the game the honest way, and cheers his friend and competitor on, and gave his life while trying to save his friend's life, at the very end.

'He died just because he was a spare!' continued Weasley, and Daphne was surprised at the amount of venom and hatred in his voice. 'Just because he was there at the wrong place at the wrong time – and You-Know-Who didn't care, didn't give two Knuts about the fact that he was a good bloke, an honest bloke, a member of Slytherin House – his own House!'

Not one person in the Hall had uttered a word, or even moved, since Weasley began his impromptu speech. The red-head was glaring fiercely around the occupants of the Hall, as he continued to speak.

'He didn't care about blood purity, or which House he was from, or what had happened. To him, Cassius was just a spare, someone to kill off for no reason at all.

'Slytherin House should be proud, Professor,' he said, turning to Dumbledore once more, 'and we should all be proud that Cassius was our champion – our Hogwarts champion. Make no mistake, the Goblet picked the right choice, because people should know that Cassius…he was a good bloke.' He faltered slightly.

'He was a true Hogwarts champion.'

Weasley continued to stare at Dumbledore, but the old man was no longer wearing an inscrutable expression on his face; rather, he was nodding, and Daphne was sure she saw a tear escape from his blue eyes and trickle into his silver beard.

The Great Hall was stunned – not because Weasley had unexpectedly spoken out of turn, but by his words, and the truth behind it. Daphne realised just then that she, too, was crying, just like a number of other girls. Behind her, on the other side of the Slytherin table, Tracey gave a small sniff.

Dumbledore moved to rise from his seat, but another bench scraped the floor; once again, everyone turned to see Iris Parkinson rise from her place at the Slytherin table.

Unlike Weasley, however, she did not address Dumbledore; in fact, she did not say anything. Instead, she steadily walked down the aisle between the Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables, reached the end, turned, and set off towards the Gryffindor table. As she approached, Harry and Granger stood up too, on either side of Weasley.

Iris finally reached the trio, and looked at each one of them – from Granger's teary face, to Harry's solemn expression, and finally Weasley's fierce gaze. Even from her seat across the Hall, Daphne could see Iris' bottom lip trembling.

And then, Iris stepped forward and engulfed Weasley in a tight hug; the red-head stood awkwardly for a moment, but returned the gesture. They were then joined by Granger and Harry – and Daphne was reminded of the scene outside Moody's office that night, when the six of them had hugged as though it were for the last time…

They broke apart; as Granger and Harry stepped away, Iris pulled back and looked up at Weasley – she was a bit shorter than him – and whispered, 'Thank you, Ron,' and even that carried across the silent Hall.

Weasley nodded, presumably without any words to say.

'We won't forget him, Iris,' said Harry suddenly. It was the first sentence he had ever said in public, ever since that night. He seized his goblet and raised it into the air. 'To Cassius – a champion, and an honest friend.'

Iris shook her head, tears spilling down her face once more, and as Granger wrapped her in a comforting embrace, the entire Great Hall – teachers, students, and even the ghosts present – once again rose as one, raised their goblets, and copied Harry.

'To Cassius – a champion, and an honest friend.'

And as Daphne raised her goblet, Dumbledore's voice rang out across the Hall.

'Remember Cassius Warrington.'

 _***Finite Incantatem***_

* * *

 **Last Author's Note: I've loved every single minute of writing this story, and reading your reviews for each chapter. Thanks to every one of you for making this a magical experience.**

 **Part II of 'The Other Champion' series will be posted on this website by January / February 2018. Stay tuned to this story for a collection of snippets from Part II!**


	12. Announcement: Sneak preview

**The Other Champion**

 **Announcement**

I'm pleased to announce that a sneak preview of **"The Other Champion – Part II"** , is now up on my profile! Please do have a look, and review!


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